


Everything That Kills Me...

by harryismymuse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Great Gatsby AU, Harry as Daisy, Infidelity, Liam as Tom, Louis as Jordan, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Violence, Niall as Nick, No major character deaths, Obsession, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Zayn as Gatsby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryismymuse/pseuds/harryismymuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...Mostly, Zayn spent his time waiting. Waiting for the days when Harry was able to sneak over to West Egg undetected—usually two, maybe three times a week, at best. It was a dream, initially; Zayn more than thrilled to show Harry around the big yellow mansion and reminisce over old times. But ultimately it wasn’t enough, and the waiting became unbearable for Zayn. He’d pace his enormous house like a madman, pulling at his hair, itching over his skin like he could still feel the phantom of Harry’s touch, the ghost of his lips trailing down the center of his chest. He was losing his mind in his obsession, spending hours at the edge of his property, staring across the water at the faint green light flashing, flashing. He was still reaching, even after everything. Even with the world at his fingertips, even with Harry risking everything to sneak to his place a couple nights a week (just as desperate to be touched, just as desperate to be loved), it wasn’t enough to let Zayn reach across that water. And that could make a man crazy, Niall believed. That could drive a man to do reckless things he wouldn’t normally do."</p><p>OR</p><p>A Great Gatsby AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I have obsessed over this fic for weeks now, ever since the idea came into my head. I'm really happy with the way it came out, and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. (If you like it and have any feedback, please let me know in the comments)
> 
> I never would have been able to finish it if not for my friend who helped me every single step of the way, literally paragraph by paragraph, urging me to keep going. And I can't thank her enough for putting up with me and getting me through this.
> 
> NOTE: I purposely tried (not always succeeding) to leave the time period ambiguous, so feel free to imagine it set in the "Roaring Twenties", present day, or whatever else you'd like.

Niall didn’t let himself get excited about the move to West Egg until he walked around his little house and saw that it truly was his; boxes of his things stacked in teetering towers throughout the living room, his old college furniture contrasting with the beautiful hardwood floors and slightly-cracked light blue walls. He breathed in, exhaled, and he was home.

Niall grew up in a lower middle-class neighborhood, crammed into one apartment with his parents and his brother for the duration of his formative years. He got his first job at fourteen, and he’d been employed ever since. When he left his parents’ place at eighteen, he went to school, kept his head down, and worked his ass off every step of the way. 

Niall Horan had never been rich a day in his life, but he had big dreams.

 

The first thing he did that night, after taking his deep breath, was to walk outside. His little blue bungalow had a wrap-around porch that smelled like cherry blossoms despite the season and caught the perfect breeze off the water. It was summertime; bees hummed lazily about the flowers, and even though it was hours past sunset, Niall felt the fabric of his shirt sticking to his back with perspiration. 

He was just considering whether to retreat back into the cool confines of his house when something caught his eye. He took his porch steps one at a time, then walked slowly through the small garden until the outlined figure he’d seen became more visible in the weak moonlight. A man in a white suit, standing at the edge of his property, hands in pockets, looking out over the Sound; the body of water that separated West Egg from East Egg.

Zayn Malik. The man, the mystery, the tall-tale of a thousand drunken party-goers over the past year… And Niall’s new next-door neighbor. Neighbor being used in the completely literal sense of living next door, but not much else. Zayn’s home was easily the size of Niall’s tiny bungalow a hundred times over; lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, with spires and balconies and an Olympic-sized pool, the entire monstrosity sitting on 53 acres of grass so green it didn’t look real. The product of new money, and a lot of it.

There were countless rumors about Zayn Malik and where he came from, but Niall didn’t know which ones to believe, or if he should believe any of them at all. Some said he was the descendant of long-lost royalty, come to America for the first time to bury his roots in new soil. Others claimed he was a criminal, his money stained with coke and blood from years of crawling his way up from the gutter. More still claimed he just appeared one day, with his fancy suits and fat pockets, a fleeting fantasy, a beautiful mirage. And he was beautiful, so Niall was told. Beautiful enough to break hearts and start wars in the same breath. Beautiful enough that when people saw him, they were never truly convinced he actually existed. 

Niall caught a fractioned glimpse of that beauty as Zayn lifted his sharp jaw just so and the moonlight cast light and shadow across his profile, illuminating flawless olive skin and cheekbones that could inspire an artist to waste away in front of a canvas, trying to get the angle of them just right. Niall watched, totally enraptured, as Zayn Malik reached out his arm and stretched his fingers towards the East Egg skyline. Seemingly pointing at darkness for several seconds—a man grasping at nothing but his own imagination—until a faint green light appeared, faltering like a flame lit on a single candle wick. It came and went, softly and almost imperceptibly, but it was there. And Zayn reached for it, elongating his arm and his fingers as far as they would go, like somehow, he could get to it, caress it, clutch it in his hand. But it was untouchable. 

 

***

 

An hour later, Niall found himself sitting out on the terrace of the Payne mansion in East Egg, sipping champagne out of a gold-rimmed glass and trying to keep up with the never-ending stream of consciousness coming straight out of Liam’s mouth, uncensored and insensitive. If not for the alcohol and the buffer of additional company, Niall wouldn’t have survived past the first toast. 

“Jesus, Liam. Shut up a minute, would you?” Louis Tomlinson, professional soccer player and friend of the family, scoffed and tipped back the last of the wine in his glass. “No one else can get a word in edgewise with you and your damned conspiracies. None of it matters, Liam—none of it. It’s boring, and there are better things to talk about. Real things.”

Liam Payne—a man who was large in every sense of the word, from the verging-on-ridiculous expanse of his house, to the number of commas in his bank balance, and even his own hard, muscled frame—glared at Louis from across the round glass table they all sat at, his eyes dark from the alcohol and something else as they roamed over Louis’ face. “My house, my conversational topics, Tommo. If you don’t like it, you can get out.”

Louis snorted, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” He said, but made no move to leave. “Sometimes listening to you talk makes my head want to explode. You’re so careless, Liam. Just the way you throw words around, like it’s money to you. Like you have an endless supply. But it’s worth something, you know; what comes out of your mouth. It means something. You should stop wasting words on bullshit. There’s a whole world out there, Payno, and—”

_“Gentlemen, please…”_

All three men turned to look into the glowing green eyes of Harry Styles, who was sitting cross-legged and reclined in his chair next to Niall. He grasped his glass with five fingers around the rim, lazily swirling it ‘round and ‘round over the patio, relaxed in the knowledge that should he drop it, another one would be placed in his hands within moments, like the momentary slip had never happened. “Let’s keep it civil,” Harry said, voice slow and deep, a sound you wanted to hear over and over again because you didn’t appreciate it enough the first time. “ _Babe_ , Louis’ just getting you worked up,” Harry glanced over at Liam, his engagement ring glittering in the soft candlelight as he swept a long lock of hair behind his ear. The movement was graceful, unintentionally endearing, like everything else about him. When he caught Niall staring, he smirked and turned back to Liam. 

Liam huffed, but continued on like he’d never been interrupted. “The new money in West Egg will be the downfall of us, I’m telling you. They’re multiplying and spreading throughout this goddamned state like a rash. Every single one of them a product of some get-rich-quick bullshit, whether it’s Wall Street or drug trade, or fuck knows what else. They’re in West Egg now, but they’ll migrate over here, just wait.”

Louis, who’d lit up a cigarette somewhere in between, rolled his eyes for the second time. “So what if they do? Honestly, _what if they fucking do, Liam?_ We could use some life around here.”

Liam went red in the face then, like his brain was overheating from not being able to spew out bullshit every waking second. His hair flopped over his eyes as he leaned across the table and put his fist down on the glass. “ _If they do I will move._ ”

Louis chuckled. “Still not seeing the downside.”

“That’s it!” Liam stood and threw his napkin down at his feet, redder than ever now. One of the house staff ran over and grabbed the napkin from the ground and quickly replaced it with a fresh one on the table. “I want him out!”

“You’re so fucking dramatic Liam, Jesus,” Harry sighed, suddenly looking just as bored as Louis. He managed to recline even further in his chair, tilting his chin up to catch a passing breeze that made his white silk shirt billow and collapse against his golden chest, unbuttoned to the large butterfly tattoo at the center of his torso. “I’m tired,” He sighed, palm to his temple.

Liam, still beet-colored and fuming, opened his mouth to spew out more bullshit, but a phone rang somewhere three times, shrill and insistent, until one of the house staff answered it.

“Mr. Payne, it’s for you,” 

Liam nodded like he’d been expecting it. And Harry hardly seemed to notice, even when Liam smoothed his hair back and walked into the house to take his call without excuse or explanation. 

Silence befell the three remaining men for several seconds before Harry inhaled sharply, then exhaled it with a smile. “So Niall, dearest cousin, how’s the book coming?”

Niall thanked the woman from the staff who’d come over to refill his glass, then turned to Harry, mouth struggling around the words he couldn’t find. “Um, well…”

“There is a book,” Louis lifted one perfect brow and smirked. “Isn’t there? That’s the reason you moved, right? To get away from the city…to focus.”

Niall felt his cheeks grow hot. “No, I haven’t started…quite yet. I’m still…” Niall waved a hand about his head fleetingly. “Gathering inspiration.”

Harry grinned, and it was dazzling. “Of course.” He shook out his hair with one hand and swept it out of his face again with the fluidity that comes with habit. 

“I was hoping to use you and Liam as creative influences of sorts…” The words fell from Niall’s lips before he could stop them. He curled his fingers into a fist under the table, but pressed on. “Just your lives and experiences, you know… Observing what it’s like—” _living like gods; the world at your fingertips, nothing to fear but the divine._ “What it’s like to be you.” 

Harry’s perfect pink lips quirked into his famous lop-sided grin at that, dimple popping. He was a vision to behold, and he knew it; with his long, silky curls down his back, and even longer legs. Decked out in designer clothing, skin glowing, eyes bright and innocent, blinking slow. He was Harry Styles; the dream, the untouchable. “Sure thing, Nialler. Sounds like fun.”

 

***

 

Later that night, when Niall was on his way out the door, planning to head back to West Egg and get some sleep, Liam stopped him in the hall with a hand to his arm. “Hey Horan,” He smirked and glanced over his shoulder once, something Niall recognized from when they were in college together, and Liam got an idea to do something stupid. “Come with me tomorrow afternoon; there’s this party I’m going to, it’s gonna be a lot of fun. You’re in, right?”

Everything in him screamed to say no, but Niall was still a 22 year old idiot, and when Liam mentioned alcohol and hot guys, it was a no brainer, literally. It wasn’t until the next day when he was in Liam’s shiny blue car and saw them leaving East Egg, headed towards West Egg, that he got suspicious. 

“Where is this party, exactly?” He asked, gripping the edge of the car as Liam picked up speed on the freeway. 

“The Vally of Ashes.”

“Are you serious?” The Valley was where the poor lived, squeezed in together like bees in a hive, living under a sky that was never sunny, because the pollution from the factories kept the light from shining through. It was desolate. No one went to The Valley on purpose. Especially not people like Liam. “Why are we going there?”

But Liam just gave that stupid grin again. “For the party, of course.”

 

The building he stopped at was some sort of run-down car garage. He pulled in his vehicle without hesitation, then killed the engine and walked over to a door on the left, taking a key from his pocket. He looked back at Niall, frustration hard on his face as he waved him over. So Niall got out of the car and followed Liam up the narrow set of steps behind the door, unsure of what he’d find at the top until he was standing in the middle of a crowded living room, watching as Liam greeted a bunch of people Niall had never seen before, poor and wealthy alike, dancing to the same music, drinking the same liquor. Funny how Liam thought of the working class as the scum of the earth, but behind closed doors they were good enough to snort a line up the middle of a hooker’s chest. 

“Niall! Hey Niall!” Liam called to him from across the room about thirty minutes after they arrived. His eyes were already blown wide, and dancing in his skull, but Niall was fucked, too. He’d downed nearly an entire bottle of wine, and his gait was unsteady as he walked over to Liam. 

When Niall reached him, Liam grinned crookedly and pulled a young man to his side, hand on his waist. “This is Micah,” He bit a mark onto the man’s neck, prompting a harsh inhale of breath. Micah was tall, slim, and olive-skinned, with soft black hair falling down around his shoulders. He smiled at Niall, but then leaned over to kiss at Liam’s jaw, sucking gently until Liam made him stop. A moment later, they stumbled into the bedroom and shut the door. Niall felt like he might be sick.

“Here, take these.” A man and a woman were suddenly standing on either side of him, running their hands up his sides, breathing hot against his cheeks as they slipped a couple small pills into his hands. “They’ll make you feel better…”

Niall wanted to feel better. He really did. And the way they were touching him made his skin tingle, made his pants get a little tighter. So he tossed his head back, downed the pills in one go, and pushed his lips against the woman’s, tasting cigarettes and something sweet. 

 

Niall woke on the living room couch with his shirt undone and hanging at his sides. His bones felt like they were made of heavy metal, and his blood was molasses in his veins. He sat up and looked around himself to find that the party was over, and he was alone. He buried his head in his hands. Promised to kill Liam the next time he saw him. But then he heard him; Liam’s shouted profanities from the bedroom tangled up with breathless moans begging to be fucked _harder, faster._

An hour later, when Liam finally came out to sit on the couch in the living room, his eyes were still blown and dancing. A bit of white powder was visible under his nose, even as he fidgeted in his seat and wiped his knuckle across the skin.

Several minutes earlier, Niall had cleared the small coffee table, set aside empty liquor bottles and pipes, swept up the last remaining white crystals still stubbornly sticking to the glass. He waited for Liam to leave Micah and come out of the tiny bedroom, into the shitty living room space where the air smelled of sweat and booze. The curtains were drawn, and the only light was from the weak couple of lamps turned on around the room, struggling to shoo away the darkness. Niall wondered, briefly, how much worse it would all look in the daylight, should he pull back the curtains and let the sun shine through the cracks and crevices of the apartment, making it impossible to ignore what had happened.

Niall looked to Liam, sitting there, sweating through his once-crisp white shirt and not seeming to care. “Can I ask you a few questions?” He asked, choosing his words carefully. “It’s for research, for my book. There won’t be any names or direct quotes used, since it’s a work of fiction, but… I just want to get a grasp on what life is like—for people like you.”

“ _People like me?_ ” Liam’s eyes flashed, angry at first. But it passed quickly, and Liam smiled. “Life for people like me is fucking crazy, Horan, that’s what. Just yesterday before you came over, I bought a boat. Not some rinky-dink motor boat, not some amateur yacht. I’m talking about a real fucking boat. Enough to host three hundred people if I want to, not including the staff. I don’t even know how to captain it. But I wanted a boat, so I bought a boat.”

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you didn’t have money?”

Liam chuckled, as if the question were ridiculous. “No. Why would I?”

Niall smiled tightly. “This affair with Micah…how long has it been going on?” He asked quietly, working to keep his own emotions out of it. 

“Um,” Liam huffed, obnoxiously loud, blowing his stale breath into the air. He didn’t seem to be very nervous, talking about his secrets; Niall had that effect on people. Or maybe, he was just so unassuming, so honest and non-threatening, that he could make himself disappear to them. Make it feel like they were just talking aloud to themselves. “I’ve been seeing Micah for about six months,” Liam admitted. “There have been others, but he’s…special.”

“You seem to have a type.”

“What?”

“A type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tall, long hair, doe-eyed…” Niall said, watching him. 

Liam pressed his lips together into a tight line. “Micah loves me.”

“Harry loves you.”

“ _Harry_ —” Liam took a breath, tried to keep his voice even. “Harry used to love me… When we were dating, it was like we couldn’t stay away from each other. I’d wake up with his legs wrapped around mine, lips murmuring in my ear that he wouldn’t know what to do without me. I’d find long curly hairs stuck on my shower wall, and his socks trapped under the covers at the bottom of my bed, cause he’d kick them off at night in his sleep.” Liam said the words in a tone that Niall could only describe as bittersweet. Nostalgia for the memories, while also hating what they made him believe.

“We used to do shit together, you know? He’d come to work with me sometimes, and other times I’d go with him to art shows downtown. It was nice. I was happy in a monogamous relationship for the first time in my life.” Liam bit his lip, his face reddening with emotion. “And then one day about a year ago, he just fucking changed. I couldn’t make him laugh anymore, and he wouldn’t kiss me goodbye. He was like a different person, and I didn’t know why.”

Niall nodded once, glanced down at his lap. “And now? What’s it like now?”

Liam shrugged, reclined against the couch and threw his arm over the back. “Not much at all, really. We fuck from time, to time… Some nights when he sees me walk through the door, he won’t say hello or ask me how my day was. He doesn’t fucking care. He’ll just let me bend him over the kitchen table and pull his hair while I fuck him. Hard enough that it hurts, because he’s barely capable of feeling anything anymore.”

“So why not break off the engagement? Why not tell him it’s over?”

The color drained from Liam’s face then, and Niall honest-to-god never saw Liam look guilty for a single thing the entire time he’d known him, but there it was, in his downcast eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. Remorse. “Because I still love him… I’m not making excuses; I own the shit I’ve done. That I’m still doing. But I’m a fucking idiot, and I still love Harry, so I’ll never let him go unless he asks to be. And he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He just won’t.” 

 

***

 

A few days later, Niall found an invitation sitting in his mailbox, and he thought it was a joke. Because he hadn’t realized the man even knew he existed, let alone wanted to meet him. And because people didn’t get invitations to Zayn Malik’s parties. They just showed up; complete strangers coming in to drink his liquor and eat his food, some never even catching a glimpse of their elusive host before they headed back home, heels in hand. 

And yet, there it was; Niall Horan’s formal invitation to Zayn Malik’s weekend celebration that evening, stuck between his light bill and a mis-delivered birthday card that read _Happy 40th, Ronald!_ Niall wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his pants and reached for his phone. If he was going go to Zayn Malik’s party, he wasn’t going to do it by himself. 

 

***

Zayn Malik’s parties were otherworldly, so Louis said. The stuff of legends and fairy tales that turned pumpkins and mice into horse-drawn carriages. Every weekend, all the lights were turned on in that big, empty mansion, and music started playing, loud enough to get the whole city buzzing with anticipation, loud enough to travel across the water to East Egg, just a faint thrum of bass by the time it hit anyone’s ears.

For as much shit as Louis talked about boring rich people, he certainly didn’t dress like he was poor. When Niall arrived at his sprawling East Egg abode that night, Louis met him dressed in a perfectly-tailored black suit; his hair light and fluffy, twisting down along his face in a single curl, and his bow tie the color of champagne. Niall was dressed pretty sharp himself, thanks to Harry. _You need suits? Here, take these. They’re brand new, but I never wore them. Liam just bought me a whole rack of the latest summer collection._ So Niall’d picked a deep blue one with subtle pinstripes to pair with a thin black tie, shiny black shoes, and black-rimmed eye glasses. Louis clucked his tongue appreciatively when he saw him, eyes roaming from Niall’s face all the way down to his feet and back again.

“Let’s go blondie,” He sighed, sauntering out the door towards Niall’s idly-running car. “I’m not getting any younger,”

 

When Niall parked the car back at his place and he and Louis made the short walk over to Zayn’s, it seemed fitting when they got caught up in the throng of people standing outside the golden gates, waiting to go inside like it was the way into heaven. Half of them were already drunk, hanging off the railings, tipsy, girls wobbling in their heels as they leaned against their guys. Music could be heard, loud and clear, something fast-paced that got Niall’s heart racing in his chest. Maybe it was the adrenaline; he’d heard so much about the mysterious Zayn Malik, and now he was actually attending one of his parties. 

“Relax, alright?” Louis smiled at him, and the effect was dizzying. More so when Louis reached over and squeezed Niall’s hand in his own. “You’re gonna have the time of your life.”

The gates finally began to creep open about a minute later, but only enough to accommodate two or three people to get through at once. Zayn’s security—beefy, stern-faced men in black suits with guns on their hips—stood on either side of the narrow entrance, saying nothing, but watching every person that walked past. Niall felt their steely gazes on his own face as he passed, and he gripped Louis’ hand tighter. 

“I um, I’m gonna go head to the restroom,” Niall apologized to Louis the moment they stepped into the house, his back wet with sweat. He felt he was being crushed by the majesty of it all, swallowed whole by the endless marble floors and walls that just kept going up and up and up. Louis huffed, used to the life of luxury and homes so big you could sleep in a different room every night, but he said he’d be out back when Niall came looking. Which was all well and good, until Niall found himself totally and completely lost. 

He’d gone to the closest restroom he could find—a half bath done up in black marble and gold—and planned to return to the party right after, but his curiosity pulled him in the opposite direction, towards the dark side of the house where it was almost easy forget there was a party going on at all. 

Niall wondered about Zayn Malik, really wondered about him, for the first time since he’d seen him standing by the water those few nights ago, arm outstretched to a barely-visible green light, like he was trying to capture it in his hand. Niall wondered if Zayn heard the things people said about him. If he cared, or if he wanted to set the story straight once and for all. Maybe Niall could help him out with that.

Niall wandered the dark halls of Zayn’s mansion for much longer than he ever meant to, flitting from room to room touching tabletops and the backs of chairs, peeking into drawers and closets and under the beds. In all honesty, he was looking for something that would prove once and for all that Zayn Malik was indeed real. That he lived in such a monstrosity of an abode all alone, with no one to keep him company but his house staff and the twenty-somethings roaring through his home like hurricane winds every weekend, only to leave the next morning without even so much as a goodbye. 

“Hey man,”

Niall’s heart rocketed into his throat as he whirled around in the dark room he’d been perusing, hands up in the air like a criminal accepting surrender. He expected to see Zayn Malik himself standing there, relaxed in his white suit, swirling liquor and ice in a glass, letting them clink together quietly, like small wind chimes. But instead he saw an unfamiliar drunk man hovering in the doorway, looking lost and confused more than anything. He put up his hands too, a reflex to Niall’s sudden movement. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Just wonderin’ if you know how to get out of here?”

Niall let out a deep breath, trying to get his pulse to stop slamming through the vein in his neck. “Um, yeah, sure.” He lied, beginning the walk out the door and back the way he came. He heard heavy footsteps behind him as the other man followed him like a lost puppy. 

“So are you him?” The man asked, a tone of wonder in his voice. “Are you Zayn Malik?”

 

***

 

In the time since Niall’d excused himself to the bathroom nearly forty-five minutes earlier, the party had really taken off. Or erupted rather, with confetti and glitter still falling from the sky like live embers, and trays of multi-colored cocktails sweeping around every room. There was dancing like Niall’d never seen it before; a feverish, almost desperate blur of limbs, flying, shaking, moving so fast it made Niall’s head spin. Bodies pressed as close as possible, giving off so much heat that the air became humid and weighed down with the miasma of hundreds of people all perspiring at once. A live band played outside on the stone steps of Zayn’s massive courtyard; Niall followed the music, let himself be guided out the glass French doors into the fresh summer air where the sound exploded out at him, pulsing through his bones, down to the marrow. He watched in amazement as people jumped into Zayn’s pool fully dressed, swimming over the enormous Z.M. logo on the pool floor, only visible because of the water’s clear, impossibly blue water. 

All around him, people danced, laughed, drank like the morning would never come. They broke glass and knocked over potted plants, trashed the courtyard with cigarette butts and abandoned feather boas. It was madness. It was magnificent.

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Niall didn’t have time to turn around before Louis was wrapping an arm around his shoulders and thrusting a drink into his hands. “I, um, got a little lost. I’m sorry.” Niall apologized, but Louis wasn’t even listening. Instead he shouted something to someone in the crowd a dozen or so feet away, his voice barely audible even to Niall with the music in the background. 

“Well while you were getting lost, you’ll never guess what happened to me.” Louis settled his drunken, unsteady gaze on Niall once again, this time, his lips quirked up into a mischievous smirk that got something itching under Niall’s skin. 

“Yeah? What’s that?” He had to shout it over the noise.

“I met him, Niall!” Louis grinned so wide it was like the sun itself was set behind his teeth. “I met Zayn Malik and he told me a story you’ll never believe! It all makes sense now!”

 

***

 

Zayn pulled him aside early on in the evening, so Louis said. Not personally, of course, but a member of his security came to fetch Louis and bring him back into the house, up _about a dozen bloody flights of stairs_ , to his study where Zayn himself greeted Louis in the most polite manner. _He was quite the gentleman; even complimented me on my suit_. Louis explained that Zayn never actually attended his own parties. _They aren’t for me,_ he’d said. But he looked on from the windows, peering down at the small empire he’d created night after night, watching the best times of people’s lives unfold before him like blooming red roses. _He’s longing for someone_ , Louis said. _He longs so badly._

For Harry Styles, apparently. Louis finally coughed it up a few days after the party, conveniently (or perhaps inconveniently) on the same day Niall had been invited to spend the afternoon with Zayn. A little get-to-know-you lunch, so it said in yet another invitation. Part of Niall wondered why Zayn didn’t just invite him over in person (after all, he is right next door), but mostly he enjoyed the extravagance of it. The expensive paper and swooping cursive, signed with those famous initials that Niall could still see, emblazoned underneath all that blue, blue water.

 

At precisely 11:45am, as was specified by the invitation, Niall knocked on Zayn’s massive door with one hand, while holding a bottle of champagne in the other. To his surprise, he was told he wouldn’t be meeting with Zayn in his house that afternoon. Instead, he was led out to the dock where Zayn’s brand new white yacht was waiting. It was small, but it had to cost a fortune. Reluctantly, Niall remembered Liam’s ramblings from days ago; _I bought a boat…not some amateur yacht. I’m talking about a real fucking boat._ Briefly, Niall wondered if maybe Liam had been taking a shot at Zayn the whole time. Maybe the only reason he’d bought a damn boat in the first place was to one-up the new money he felt so threatened by. 

Less than a minute after stepping onto the yacht, Niall finally came face to face with the man everyone was talking about. The Great Zayn Malik, in the flesh. Niall did his best to play it cool as he reached out to offer his hand. Zayn smiled at him, polite and effortlessly beautiful. He was wearing all white again; a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up on his arms, and a pair of breezy white trousers. His feet were bare. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Niall.” Zayn said. And he was surprisingly soft-spoken for such an enigma of a man. His hands were neat and clean as he returned Niall’s handshake, but surprisingly dry, as if he’d washed them a few extra times before their meeting. 

“It’s nice to put a face to the name.” Niall said, genuinely smiling back. He neglected to mention that he had technically already seen Zayn, standing on the edge of his property several nights ago, reaching, reaching. 

“Let’s have a seat,” Zayn gestured for Niall to follow him, and he did, trailing behind Zayn’s slim, unassuming figure, navigating the yacht until they came to the main deck where a white-clothed table was set up. They sat down, and plates were presented in front of them almost immediately. “I wanted to speak with you about something very important, Niall.” Zayn said, his polite smile traded in for a wary frown and the nervous arch to his back. 

“Of course, anything.” Niall replied carefully, already having an idea of what might come next.

“Harry Styles is your cousin…” Zayn trailed, looking at Niall with a barely-subdued desperation. A breeze passed, blowing a few locks of dark hair out of their originally immaculate sweep.

“By marriage, yes.” Niall said, already feeling sympathy for the man in front of him. 

“And Louis has shared with you what I spoke to him about this weekend at my party?” 

Niall frowned. “Only that you have feelings for Harry.”

Zayn’s big brown eyes assessed Niall’s face, searching for something. When he didn’t find it, he exhaled slowly, leaned back in his chair. “You’re an honest man. I can tell.”

“Yes,” Niall replied with a small smile. If Niall Horan had nothing else in the world, even if everything else went to shit, he’d have his honesty.

“Good.” Zayn nodded, as if that confirmed it. “Then I can trust you, to keep this between us.” A beat passed, and Zayn suddenly looked down at his hands, rubbing them together. The dry, slightly raw skin making a sound as he did. “Harry and I were college sweethearts, and we attended the same Ivy League school together, all four years. Harry majored in art, and I majored in business. We had few things in common, but we loved each other.” Zayn smiled softly at the memory. “We spent every day together, sprawled out on the lawn in front of his dorm, a dozen books opened in front of us at once, mostly mine. We studied a little, but mainly we talked. I loved the sound of his voice, and I could listen to Harry speak for hours. He only really talked to me… _Harry Styles_ talked to everyone, but _Harry?_ He only talked to me. 

“He was my best friend, and the love of my life. I thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together, naturally. So on the last day of our senior year, I proposed to him on that same lawn in front of his old dorm. I spread out a picnic and everything; it was the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. And Harry said yes.” Zayn laughed breathily and swiped his thumb beneath one of his eyes. “Sorry, I just—”

“You still love him,” Niall nodded, feeling his heart clench with the innocence of it all. The purity of the love they felt. “So what happened? Why didn’t you get married?”

A shadow crossed over Zayn’s face then. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or maybe Niall imagined it, but he would have sworn that something dark befell Zayn’s beautiful brown eyes in that moment, like flipping a switch. Zayn cleared his throat and leaned forward, elbows hard and jutting against the tabletop. At some point, he’d undone a few of the buttons of his shirt, leave a little patch of golden skin visible. Beneath that, Niall could see when Zayn leaned forward even more, was a deep red t-shirt he hadn’t noticed before.

“Everything was fine until Harry went back home. Harry’s parents—your aunt an uncle, and please forgive me for being rude—were not very kind or warm-hearted people. No matter how much Harry begged and pleaded, year after year while we were in school, his parents would not let me come home with him for the holidays. They’d never even met me. Everything they knew about me was what they’d heard from Harry, and yet, it was like they despised me. 

“But after Harry agreed to marry me, I didn’t worry about what his parents would think. We just packed our stuff into Harry’s car and I drove him home so he could get his things and say goodbye to them before we left.”

Niall nodded, not sure where the story was going. But he was hanging on every word.

“When we got there, it was midday in May. Warm and beautiful, the kind of day where you just know something good’s gonna happen to you, you know? So I was in a great mood. I kissed Harry before he got out the car, told him to hurry back. I still remember the way he smiled at me; there was so much promise in his eyes. I knew he’d be running back to me in no time so we could drive off to our future. 

“But Harry’s parents made sure that didn’t happen. I waited in the car while he disappeared into their enormous white house. I waited for close to an hour, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, getting more anxious with every passing second. I was getting ready to go in there myself, to tell his parents to get their heads out of their asses and let Harry live his life. But the door opened then, and when I looked through the car window, it wasn’t Harry’s parents, but just Harry himself, walking out to me, head down, shoulders hunched. I got out the car and ran up to him, clutched his arms and asked him what was wrong, but Harry just shook his head, handed over his engagement ring and said he couldn’t do it.”

Zayn was openly crying then; a single tear running down either of his cheeks, dripping from his perfect jaw onto his white, white shirt, exposing the red fabric underneath. “His parents told him they’d cut him off if he married someone like me. That he’d be dead to them from that point on. So Harry said he couldn’t do it, because he didn’t know any different, and he was scared of what would happen should he walk away and never look back. Just hand his entire future over to a man who’d come from a shit town in the middle of nowhere, son of farmhands who could barely afford to feed themselves from month to month, let alone spoil their only son with imported delicacies and vacations to the far corners of the world. Me and Harry had nothing in common. He came from old money, and I came from dirt and shit. We couldn’t support ourselves if we decided to leave. I could never give Harry the things he wanted and deserved. So I took the ring, gave Harry his car keys, and I left. Called myself a cab and took my measly bag of things with me, far away from that white house and the love of my life crying in the driveway as he watched me disappear down the street.”

Both men were silent when Zayn finished speaking, their food cold and completely untouched before them. Niall was speechless, trying to wrap his head around it all. The tragedy of it, and the inconceivable idea that Zayn Malik grew up in the gutter of society. Just a man in love with only his dreams to call his own. “So how did you do it? How did you achieve all this in such a short time?” 

At that, Zayn reclined again, straightening out his shirt, sniffing the last of his tears back while the wet trails on his cheeks dried up in the sun. “I reinvented myself. I dressed nicer, I talked smoother, I dreamed success so ferociously that one day it actually came true, with some hard work and a little discipline.” Zayn replied, suddenly back to the man Niall’d met upon first stepping onto the boat. “In four years time, I had all of this,” Zayn grinned and stretched out his arm towards his mansion, still visible through the trees, even from the water where the yacht was slowly drifting.

Niall frowned, feeling like he was missing something. “So why are you telling me all of this?”

Zayn dropped his arms, but kept his grin. “Because,” He explained. “You’re an honest man, Niall. And I think I can trust you to help me achieve one last, very important dream.”

 

***

 

Harry Styles was still living in a big white house, even all those years later. Only, this one he shared with his fiancé, Liam, and the countless number of people in their staff who waited on them hand and foot. Louis was the one to greet Niall in the hall when he arrived late that afternoon; just after leaving the yacht where Zayn had bared his soul in the sunshine on the deck, picked at the deepest of his wounds and let them bleed free as he spoke to Niall about a simple request.

Louis slipped his hands along Niall’s waist the moment he saw him, pressing their bodies together, crowding Niall up against the door he’d just walked through. The staff quickly disappeared when they realized what was happening, but not so fast that they didn’t catch Louis sucking a line up Niall’s jaw. 

Several minutes later, with a blooming red hickey peeking out from the under collar of his polo shirt, Niall walked into the sun room, his hand casually wrapped around Louis’. He stopped when he entered, taking in the sight, but Louis kept going, their hands separating as Louis went to sit down on one of the snow white couches, right leg crossed over the left, looking bored again. The entire room was like something out of a dream; white furniture, white tiled floors, white walls, and billowing white curtains floating into the great, round room on a constant breeze. There were five sets of white French doors, pushed open to let in the outside air. The sharp contrast of green grass and blue sky against the severity of the white in the room was so odd a sight that Niall could barely tear his eyes away. The only thing more curiously alluring than the room itself, was Harry Styles, standing at the threshold of the middle set of doors, his back to Niall as he looked out over the sparkling blue waters of the Sound, out towards Zayn Malik’s mansion, looming in the distance, the usually crisp yellow of the structure blurring to look like gold in the sunlight.

Harry himself was dressed in white to match his room, and his house, and the lover he left behind. Niall wondered if Harry had different colors under his clothes, too. 

“Harry,” Niall said finally, still lingering awkwardly at the room’s entrance. He watched as Harry turned, glancing at Niall over his shoulder. His white jeans clung to his endless legs, but his shirt billowed out from him with the wind, much like the curtains. Harry’s long curls might have blown wildly across his face if they were free, sticking to his lips, getting in his eyes, but Harry had his hair tied up at the back of his head, neat as a bow, not a strand out of place. If nothing else, Harry was always a vision to behold. Always. 

He looked at Niall over his shoulder and smiled a smile that didn’t quiet reach his eyes. “Hello,”

 

***

 

“A housewarming?” Harry asked. He was sitting on the couch next to Louis, sipping tea out of a pretty blue china cup that trembled in his hand. 

Upon closer look, Harry had clearly been crying. His eyes were puffy and slightly red, and his cheeks were flushed more than normal. But Niall and Louis pretended not to see, because that’s what Harry would’ve wanted. 

“Yes, a housewarming, this Friday night.” Niall clarified. “I’d love to have you guys over and show you the place. It isn’t much, but…”

Harry waved him away. “Shut up, of course we’ll be there.” He grinned, truly this time. “I’m so excited.”

Niall opened his mouth to speak again, pleased that Harry had accepted the invitation, but Louis spoke before he had the chance, calling out across the room. “What are you doing here, asshole?”

“I live here, shithead.” Liam walked into the room from the hall, his mint green polo slightly throwing off the aesthetic. He seemed to be in fairly good spirits, whistling something as he plopped down, book in hand, beside Niall on the couch opposite the one Harry and Louis sat. Harry stared at him, no longer grinning. 

“I told you I didn’t want to see you today,” He gritted, throwing a pillow at Liam’s head. 

Liam dodged it and cursed. “Lovely to see you, too, _dear_.” He threw the pillow back at Harry, but missed and knocked over a lamp instead that clattered to the floor.

“You’re such a child.” Harry said. “ _Babe._ ”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Louis groaned, tilting his head back in exasperation. “Give it a rest.”

“The house phone’s been ringing off the hook for you,” Harry continued, ignoring Louis and fixing his eyes on Liam. “You’re in high demand, it seems. Popular guy.”

Liam, unfazed, just shook his head and opened his book, balancing it on his leg. “Okay Harry.”

“Maybe I can take a message next time, you piece of shit.”

Liam slammed the book on the coffee table then, face down, making Niall jump. His smile was tight as he looked to Louis. “Round of golf, Tommo? How ‘bout it?”

“I’m shit at golf and you know it.” Louis protested. But he grinned and walked towards the door anyway, Liam in tow. There was a bit of a commotion right before they exited into the hall, Louis blushing and slapping Liam’s wandering hands away like a shy schoolgirl. 

It was blatant, and Niall knew Harry’d seen it, but Harry pretended otherwise. 

Harry pretended a lot, Niall realized.

 

***

 

Zayn sent his assistant over to fetch Niall from his house first thing the next morning. It was unexpected, but Niall, ever the curious one, was intrigued. He let the assistant (a small red-haired woman with thick-rimmed glasses) lead him through the enormous empty house. Seemed like it took years before they finally reached Zayn's bedroom. The woman knocked on the door lightly, clearing her throat before calling out, "Mr. Malik? Mr. Horan is here to see you."

Belatedly, Zayn called back a gruff, "Send him in!"

So the woman smiled at Niall, her eyes conveying something along the lines of _good luck_ as she walked away. Niall shrugged his shoulders back, straightened his collar, and walked inside. What he saw shocked him enough to rattle his usually cool veneer. The room was a fantastic catastrophe; a rainbow of designer dress shirts scattered around the floor like ribbons, the covers pulled halfway off the bed to droop sadly onto the floor, while heavy curtains concealed the windows, casting the room in darkness. Zayn Malik, man of mysteries, dreamer of dreams bigger than even himself, stood in the center of it all, naked save for his underwear and his socks, hair in a frenzy atop his head. He looked like some scared, wild thing, like he'd bare his teeth if Niall stepped too close.

"I'm sorry to call you at such an early hour," Zayn managed, always the gentleman. But his voice was unsteady, hitching up and dropping at odd places, like he couldn't decide what to do with it anymore. "I could really use your help right now,"

 

***

So Niall played Nanny to one of the most powerful men in the city, leading Zayn to the ensuite so he could draw a bath in the porcelain, claw-footed tub. Niall left him there, steam rising around the hunched figure sitting at the edge of the tub, naked and broken. He shut the door behind himself and leaned against it, taking in a couple deep breaths before cleaning up the mess.

 

Niall waited for Zayn out in the courtyard, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he peered out over the sweeping stone patio and the too-blue water of the pool. It was odd, seeing the space so peaceful and well-kept. Last time Niall was there, it was like a zoo and a circus had collided, creatures of the night dolled up in their best outfits, dancing the evening away to the rumbling beat of the band. He could almost hear the music again if he closed his eyes…

The scraping of iron on stone woke Niall from his little mid-morning doze. He blinked and lifted his sunglasses, taking in the sight of Zayn Malik sitting across from him; clean and freshly-shaven, dressed in a purple shirt, unbuttoned far enough to show off the red lipstick stain tattooed on his chest. His big brown eyes were cast down towards his lap, like a chastised child in grownup clothes. 

“I’m sorry, for the way I’ve acted.” Zayn frowned, his words sounding disjointed, but very carefully selected. “I’m just so nervous for tomorrow, and I don’t know what to do.”

Niall thought for a moment, then leaned forward slightly as he asked, “I have a feeling Harry will be happy to see you, too.”

Zayn glanced at Niall then, his entire demeanor perking up like an inflating birthday balloon. “How do you know? Did he say something about me?”

Niall shook his head, but thought about the previous afternoon, walking into the white room to find Harry staring out at Zayn’s mansion across the water. “He didn’t say anything but…” Niall sighed, not wanting to edge too close to the quicksand, but unable to bear another moment of Zayn’s hopeful puppy-dog gaze. “His relationship with Liam isn’t going so well. They fight, a lot, and I think Harry’s unhappy.”

“Yeah?” That seemed to appease Zayn, because for the first time all morning, he let himself relax. He reclined in his seat and glanced out over the large expanse of his own property. Niall saw him squinting and passed over his sunglasses. Zayn was surprised by the gesture. So surprised that he forgot to even put them on when he took them. Instead he just looked up at Niall with an odd little smile, verging on bashful. “I don’t really have any friends…” He said slowly. “I realize we haven’t known each other very long Niall, but you’ve got a good heart, and I’d like to think of you as my friend, if that’s alright.”

_It’s humble_ , Niall thought. Endearingly so, even through the awkwardness and the soft-spoken voice. It occurred to him, abruptly, that he still didn’t truly understand the many complexities of Zayn Malik. Maybe he never would… But he wanted to try.

“That’s alright with me,” Niall smiled. He watched Zayn put on the sunglasses then, finally. And for a fleeting moment, he thought he even caught him smiling back. 

 

***

 

The next day, around 5:53pm, Zayn was seated in Niall’s cozy little bungalow, crossing and recrossing his legs every thirty seconds. “Are you sure he’s coming?” He asked for the hundredth time. He smoothed the lapel on his deep blue suit and gave up on crossing his legs, instead opting to bounce one knee with a nervous jitter. “Maybe he caught onto us and changed his mind.”

Niall, who’d given up responding ages ago, simply continued to sit and wait, his eyes closed and his chin nudging the base of his throat as he listened to the steady tick, tick, tick of his watch. Harry would be ringing the doorbell any minute, alone, as planned. It was Friday night, and Friday nights were Liam’s choice time for his infidelity, so he declined politely over the phone earlier that day, feigning sick as if Niall didn’t know exactly what he was up to. Louis, who was completely aware of what was really going on, conveniently had an evening practice he just couldn’t miss, and so prodded Harry to go on without him and bring him back some cake. 

The house was immaculate; Zayn’s cleaning staff made sure of it. The entire place had been scrubbed from top to bottom and completely refurnished (Zayn absolutely insisted on it, despite Niall’s protests, but agreed to stow the old furniture in storage until the night was over). He had the whole house painted as well; a soft yellow color that made every room look like a breath of fresh air. Or vomit, depending on the lighting.

_Are you sure you want me to stay?_ Niall’d asked him earlier. _I'll probably get in the way, you know?_ But Zayn promised he wouldn’t, asking that Niall stay at least until Harry agreed to dinner. Because Zayn was scared, Niall realized. Absolutely terrified of coming so close to the one thing he wanted the most, only to be denied yet again. 

Niall softened a bit at the thought, lifting his head to see his friend craning his neck to stare out the window, waiting for a car to turn down the short drive to the bungalow. He was still beautiful, even in that moment; striking against the backdrop of the garden outside, bathed in the dying rays of evening sunshine coming through the glass. “Hey,” Niall said quietly, calling Zayn’s attention back into the living room where they sat. “It’s gonna be okay.”

The doorbell rang just a few seconds later, startling both of them into action. Niall practically leapt over to the door, but stopped himself right before he opened it, remembering to run a hand through his hair and slow his breathing. “Hello,” He smiled pleasantly at Harry, who stood on the other side of the threshold, a small smile on his lips. He wore a black suit that fit him like he was born to wear it, framing his tall, slender form with expert cuts and curves. A baby blue shirt underneath was unbuttoned dangerously low, showing off flawless tan skin and a cross necklace that gleamed every time the sunlight hit it. His curls were free and tumbling down along his face, fluttering at his shoulders with every passing breeze. 

“Hello,” Harry replied, passing Niall a small whicker basket filled with fresh-baked bread and muffins. “Sorry it’s just me tonight, I—” Harry walked inside when Niall stepped back to let him in. The very first thing he saw was Zayn standing in the center of the room, looking at him like he’d captured all the stars in the sky. 

“Harry,” Zayn said slowly, savoring the name. His face split into a smile as he said it again and took a step closer. “Harry,”

But Harry stepped back, bumping into Niall. He grabbed hold of his arm, too tight. “Why is he here?” 

“Harry, babe—” Zayn’s tone turned to one of barely-concealed desperation, his composure close to cracking. 

“He just wanted to speak with you, Harry.” Niall explained softly. “He has some things he’d like to say.”

Harry didn’t reply, but he didn’t turn to leave either, so Zayn took it as a sign to continue. “I know it’s been a long time since we last saw each other…and our last meeting wasn’t exactly a positive one. But a lot of things have changed since then, Harry. _I’ve changed_. And I never stopped loving you.”

Harry bit his lip, used his thumb to swipe away his tears before they ever had a chance to really fall. “Is this what you’ve done with your time?” Harry motioned to Zayn’s suit and the gold rolex glittering on his wrist. “Re-invented yourself as some mysterious millionaire who throws parties for people he’s never met?”

Zayn’s smile faltered just a bit, but he pressed on, stretching out his arm to Harry as he spoke; still so far away, even in the tiny living room. Everything he’s ever wanted, just beyond his reach. “I wanted to be the man you deserve, Harry.”

Harry inhaled sharply, no longer bothering to catch the tears as they welled up in his eyes and slipped down his flushed cheeks. “I’m engaged, Zayn.” He almost whispered, the ring on his left hand clearly visible. “You know that.”

“He’s a brute and a cheat,” Zayn said, chancing another step forward. That time, Harry didn’t back away. “I’d care for you like you should be cared for, Harry. Treat you like my everything.”

Harry’s lashes fluttered at that, and his breathing audibly slowed. He stared at Zayn with wide, agonizingly innocent eyes, waiting for him to continue.

Zayn edged closer still, his posture a little straighter, his voice a little steadier. “You’re just as stunning as I remember… It’s unbearable, not touching you.”

It was Harry who walked forward then, closing the gap between them in two steps. His lips were a deep, bruised pink color, parted slightly with desire. When he spoke again, it was against the skin behind Zayn’s ear, carefully kissed into the flesh there, like a secret. “So touch me then,”

 

***

 

Zayn and Harry heard the door shut when Niall left, but neither of them made a move to look towards it. Harry was kissing him like his life depended on it, tears mixing with sweat in the humid evening air coming through the windows. He whimpered quietly against Zayn’s lips, pressing their bodies closer together as Zayn’s hands slipped under his shirt, feeling dizzy with the reality of it. Harry’s warm flesh under his palms, Harry’s lips against his, panting with need. He felt delirious with the drug of it, intoxicated with Harry’s cologne and the soft swell of his love handles over his hips. 

“I missed you so much,” He whispered into Harry’s neck, and he could’ve cried as he felt long fingers fumble over the skin below his navel. “Love you,”

Harry didn’t say it back, but he tugged desperately at the button on Zayn’s fly, kissed him hard enough to leave a mark. And Zayn wanted to give him the fucking world.

 

***

 

In retrospect, Niall was really glad Zayn had insisted on moving out all of his old furniture; he’d have thrown it all away anyway, after what was definitely going on in there. He left as soon as the touching started, but not fast enough to miss Harry’s moans coming through the open window. 

He ended up back at Zayn’s, where the night staff let him in and showed him to a guest room that looked out over the water. It wasn’t until he was dressed for bed and ready to crawl under the covers that he saw them out on the dock, walking hand-in-hand onto Zayn’s yacht, which was lit up with a warm yellow glow against the night sky. Zayn kissed Harry’s cheek when they made it onto the deck, grinning brighter than Niall had ever seen. He got his dinner date after all.


	2. Two

The rest of the summer blew by in a blur of events, each of them burning individually bright in Niall’s mind, flashes of hyper-clarity that he could only keep straight with thorough documentation and regular introspection. He wrote like a madman in the evenings, barely stopping to sleep. During the day, wrote just enough bullshit articles about up-and-coming chefs on the Italian restaurant scene, and _How Early is Too Early for a First Kiss?: A Guide to the Perfect Relationship, One Smooch at a Time_ in order to keep food on his table, but when he wasn’t doing that, he was writing his novel. It just flowed from him, like his fingertips were on fire with the words, burning to get them down on paper before they disappeared. He had more than enough inspiration, what with being Zayn Malik’s right-hand man, Harry Styles’ best secret-keeper, Liam Payne’s enabler, and Louis Tomlinson’s booty-call. 

He spent most mornings eating breakfast out in the courtyard with Zayn, waitstaff standing by, cool breezes ruffling their shirts, and the pool water sparkling so bright they had to wear sunglasses even under the table umbrella. Zayn would always be in fantastic spirits, the morning sunshine washing away the night before to put a relentless breed of optimism in its place. He would talk of Harry, and the future. Of marriage and matching rings and running away together like teenagers. He talked with such a manic enthusiasm—an unnerving contrast to his usual soft-spoken lilt—that he barely remembered to eat, let alone breathe.

“Harry’s skin is divine,” Zayn said, one morning in mid-July, his nerves buzzing too intensely to relax into his seat. He spoke in sharp bursts of inspiration, jumbled up and sometimes broken sentences through his excitement. Niall could almost see his brown eyes glittering, even through the dark lenses of his shades. “Touching him is like everything I ever desired, every love I ever had, every lust that ever burned in my blood, exploding back at me. I’ve never wanted anyone so bad… I kiss him until my lips bruise and I can’t catch my breath. I suck over his neck, wishing every time that I could leave my mark…But he isn’t mine, not yet.

“And honestly—fuck, the sounds he makes when we…” Zayn closed his eyes, dug the heels of his palms against his temples. “I’m addicted, Niall. I’m hopelessly, irreversibly hooked. I can’t think about anything else.”

 

Another day, Zayn introduced Niall to one of his closest work associates; a man named Aamir who had the beginnings of gray sweeping at his temples despite his relative youth. He had otherwise dark hair, strong features, and eyes that were so light they verged on amber. In some ways, he and Zayn looked alike—Niall noticed it, but kept his mouth shut. He was too captivated by the man’s presence; elegant and subtly threatening all at once, like a spiderweb glittering in the sunshine.

“Niall is family to me,” Zayn announced while the three of them spent the afternoon reclined on the white couches of Zayn’s yacht. He reached over to squeeze Niall’s shoulder tight as he glanced at Aamir, his lips tight beneath his sunglasses. “I love him like a brother.”

 

Mostly, Zayn spent his time waiting. Waiting for the days when Harry was able to sneak over to West Egg undetected—usually two, maybe three times a week, at best. It was a dream, initially; Zayn more than thrilled to show Harry around the big yellow mansion and reminisce over old times. But ultimately it wasn’t enough, and the waiting became unbearable for Zayn. He’d pace his enormous house like a madman, pulling at his hair, itching over his skin like he could still feel the phantom of Harry’s touch, the ghost of his lips trailing down the center of his chest. He was losing his mind in his obsession, spending hours at the edge of his property, staring across the water at the faint green light flashing, flashing. He was still reaching, even after everything. Even with the world at his fingertips, even with Harry risking everything to sneak to his place a couple nights a week (just as desperate to be touched, just as desperate to be loved), it wasn’t enough to let Zayn reach across that water. And that could make a man crazy, Niall believed. That could drive a man to do reckless things he wouldn’t normally do.

Like sending an invitation to the Payne mansion encouraging Harry Edward Styles and Liam James Payne to join him as his special guests the following night, for a celebration they’d never forget. 

“Niall, what’s this about?” Liam frowned and tossed the invitation down on the dinner table after he read it, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “You’ve been spending so much time with him, what’s his sudden interest in us?”

Niall, who’d known nothing about the invitation or Zayn’s intentions, did his best not to seem shocked. Harry, on the other hand, was pale as a sheet. 

The four of them—Liam, Louis, Harry, and Niall—were sitting in the dining room of the big white house, sharing casual conversation and eating until they had their fill. It’d become a bit of a summer tradition, one that Niall had learned to enjoy, especially since Liam had been uncharacteristically quiet over the past month (Micah finally gave an ultimatum—him or Harry—and, well…Liam’d been sulking for weeks).

Niall licked his lips before replying, tried to focus his attention on cutting his steak. “I’ve told him a lot about all of you. I’m sure he just wanted to extend a hand, meet you for himself.”

Liam scoffed quietly. “I haven’t been to one of those ridiculous parties all year, what’s gonna make me want to go now?”

Niall didn’t know how to reply, and luckily he didn’t have to. Louis sidled his chair closer, so that their knees were practically touching under the table. He played his fingers over the back of Niall’s neck, crept just below the collar of his shirt. It made something stir within him, and he squeezed Louis’ thigh in return.

It was no secret Louis and Liam had been together, on and off for months. And apart from keeping Harry company throughout the lonely days in the big white house, and leaving his mouth shut about Zayn, Louis didn’t show compassion for anyone else but himself. Despite all the rants about being aware of the real world, and his outward resentment for the lifestyle he was born into, Louis Tomlinson was just another careless rich boy, and Niall saw right through him. 

“Should be interesting,” He whispered into Niall’s ear, a grin creeping over his lips. “It’s been a bit dull around here lately.”

 

***

 

Liam went to bed early, blaming a headache. He rose from the table and walked from the room, unhurried. As soon as he was out of earshot, Harry cursed and buried his face in his hands. “I’m fucked! _What the hell is Zayn thinking?_ ” He hissed, directing the question at Niall.

“I’m just as confused as you are, Haz.” Niall admitted.

Harry just stared at him, then Louis, thoughts whirring behind his eyes. He glanced over Niall’s shoulder, at the door Liam had just walked through. He bit his lip. “I’m going there. I need to see him.”

 

***

 

The three of them took a car to Zayn’s, Louis sitting up front by the driver while Niall sat beside Harry in the back seat. Harry was visibly trembling; in his hands, and his legs, eyes wide and unfocused. Niall reached out a hand and placed it on Harry’s knee, rubbed his thumb back and forth over the spot until Harry calmed down a bit and smiled at him. 

It started to rain, shortly before the car stopped. The driver ran around the side of the vehicle with an umbrella, and opened it over Harry’s head as he stood, ultimately passing it over to him. He did the same for Niall and Louis, and thanked them when they offered him a tip. The rainfall made it all very ominous; walking up the stone walkway to Zayn’s monstrous front porch, the house completely dark for the first time Niall could remember. They were met at the door by one of the house staff, who invited them into the cold, moonless abode. Something wasn’t right, Niall could tell.

They stood on the marble floors of the entryway, collapsed umbrellas dripping, eyes working to adjust to the lack of light, when they heard a soft voice speak from the second floor landing. “Harry?”

The lights came on all at once, like they were actors on a stage, taking their final bow. They were immersed in a dizzying, brilliant yellow glow, and they could see Zayn Malik standing at the top of the stair case, looking down at them with wide eyes. 

When Harry saw him, he dropped his umbrella with a clatter and raced up the steps. Niall could see his slim figure pressing against Zayn’s when he reached the landing, crowding against him, kissing him hard. Niall and Louis walked closer to the steps, watched as Harry tangled his hands in Zayn’s hair and Zayn’s hands squeezed at Harry’s hips.

Then all at once, Harry pulled away and pushed Zayn, hard, in the shoulder. “What was that stunt you pulled, huh? Sending that invitation to my house?” Harry stormed past Zayn before he could answer, and Zayn ran after him. 

 

Out of sight from Niall and Louis, Harry ascended further into the dark monstrosity of Zayn’s mansion, hearing insistent footsteps behind him, frantic and relentless. Harry climbed two more short staircases before he reached Zayn’s bedroom. He went in, shut and locked the door behind himself before Zayn could even grasp at the handle. 

“Babe, I’m sorry,” Zayn pleaded on the other side of the door. “Baby—”

Harry scoffed, his back against the door. “I’m not your baby.” He closed his eyes against the darkness in the room, tried to ward off his old childhood fear of what was hidden in the shadows. “You can’t do things like this anymore, Zayn. You can’t send things to my house where my fiancé can see them, okay? The flowers, too.”

Harry could practically hear Zayn smile through the door. “You got the flowers?” He asked quietly, ridiculously, his voice infuriatingly smug.

“Yes, of course.” Harry sighed softly, feeling his chest tighten at the sound of Zayn’s voice. He wanted to hear it up close, wanted to feel the subtle reverberations of it against his cheek, along the insides of his thighs. “The daffodils. They’re beautiful.” Zayn had sent hundreds, maybe thousands of them over the course of the summer; enormous bouquets in crystal vases so heavy Harry could barely pick them up. He had his house staff take them to his white room, stationing them in every corner, on every available surface, until all Harry could see were the yellow daffodils. A promise. 

“You liked them,” Zayn practically purred the words through the door, knowing just how to make Harry’s skin heat up, make his breath come slow. 

The flowers were sent every Tuesday, mid-afternoon when Liam was away at work. It got to the point where Harry started expecting them, waiting by the window as the delivery man rode up his long, stone drive.

With his eyes still closed, Harry nodded, until he realized Zayn couldn’t see him. So he turned around, slowly, and pulled open the door. He was barely able to make out Zayn’s silhouette in the near-pitch-black they stood in, but he felt strong hands trail down his sides, squeeze at his hips again. Harry felt it when Zayn kissed him, gently, like he was afraid he would break. Like maybe they both would.

Zayn backed him up to the bed and let him fall into it, his upper half lying against the duvet while his long legs hung over the edge. Zayn followed him down, trailing the line of Harry’s jaw with kisses, then his neck, and the golden triangle of skin beneath the base of his throat. He wasted no time unbuttoning Harry’s shirt the rest of the way after that, his careful fingers moving quickly. When he could finally let the silken material fall on either side of Harry’s bare torso, Zayn licked a line up from the top of his happy trail to the bottom of his sternum.

Harry gasped before he could stop himself, arched his back into it. Zayn made him feel crazy. Made him feel like his entire world would come crashing down if he didn’t touch him right there, right now.

“Zayn,” Harry heard himself say. 

“Hmm,” Zayn hummed against his skin, already kneeled between his thighs, sucking a love mark onto his hip like he knew he shouldn’t. Like he knew Liam never did anymore.

“I want you,” Harry breathed, hating how desperate he sounded, but knowing it was true; how badly he needed to feel him.

Zayn stopped mouthing at his hip then, and Harry couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness, but he felt something shift in the air, tangibly. “Alright,” Zayn said. 

So he stood to turn on the lamp across the room. Shuffle through his drawers for a condom and some lube, while Harry kicked off his boots and fumbled with the buckle of his jeans. He pulled them off along with his pants and tossed them and his shirt onto the floor in a pile of dark blues and blacks. He crawled on top of Zayn’s covers then, completely naked, waiting with his heart beating fast in his chest. Harry hadn’t worn white in weeks.

 

When Zayn saw him there, stretched out along the duvet for him, all long limbs and dark curls, eyes closed…his fingers ached with how much he wanted him. For years it felt like he dreamed of nothing else. No drug, no thrill, no breathless moment could make Zayn feel the way he did when he touched Harry. It was like every synapse in his brain fired at once. Like even the marrow of his bones felt the electricity of it, thrumming through his body, making him lose his mind. 

Zayn’s fingers ached with how long he’d been reaching for him. But finally, there he was. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, as the bed shifted with his added weight. He’d taken off his clothes, too, tossed them into the pile with Harry’s. “You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”

Harry grinned up at him, his dimple cratering his cheek. Zayn felt his heart do a flip in his chest, like a twelve year old with a crush. “Yeah, I know, Z. I know.” Harry reached out for him, still grinning, and locked his fingers around Zayn’s neck until he got the hint and leaned over to kiss him. It was obscene, the sound Harry let out then. Like a loose thread being pulled to its limits, like a single chord played on a violin, just for him. Zayn felt it shoot down the length of his spine, electric and dizzying.

 

Downstairs, Niall couldn’t stay focused. 

He was sitting on one of the plush living room sofas, with Louis straddling his lap, kissing the skin behind his ear. It was wet and loud, but it sent tingles shivering down his spine, even as he glanced back towards the stairs, wondering about his friends. 

“Niall, you’re not their keeper.” Louis finally huffed, sitting back against Niall’s knees (keeping his weight towards the good one, thankfully), and glaring at him from behind his hair. “They’re grown men, they’re probably up there fucking.”

On cue, they heard a faint, drawn-out moan drift down to them, sounding like Harry. 

“See?” Louis smirked. He bent down and kissed Niall’s lips again. 

Niall let himself sink into it for a while, thinking maybe Louis was right. He kissed back, hard, and groaned when Louis undid his fly and got a hand around his already half-hard dick. It was sloppy and dirty, but it was a dance they’d mastered over the past several weeks of fooling around. Niall knew it was nothing serious—and he didn’t want it to be. Louis wasn’t a good person. Louis lied and stabbed his friends in the back; became lovers with their significant other, helped their fiancés cheat with millionaires across the water. Maybe it meant Niall wasn’t a good person either; being able to stomach someone like Louis long enough to get off from frantic hand jobs or a heavy dick in his mouth. But Louis felt good, and Niall was young, so he didn’t think much on it. At least when he could help it. 

“Wait,” Niall put his hand up against Louis’ chest, then put a finger to his lips, telling him to stay quiet.

“Jesus fucking chr—” Louis started, but then they both heard it; the front door opening and shutting.

Niall frowned. “That’s weird.”

“The fucking door opening? How is that weird?” Louis demanded, at his limit. He climbed off of Niall before Niall could ask him to, and reached for the bottle of Merlot the house staff brought them when they first sat down. He poured some into a glass and downed the whole thing in one go before pouring another one.

But Niall was already off the couch, walking towards the front entryway. He walked slowly, quiet as a mouse, although he didn’t know why he felt the need to be unheard. The door opening and shutting was weird, because he realized it was at least the third—maybe the fourth—time he’d heard it do that since they arrived. It was dark outside, and still raining, according to the constant pattering on the roof, so who was going in and out of the house? 

When Niall got close to the entryway, he changed paths and went to look out a front-facing window instead. When he pulled back the curtains and peered out, he saw a shock of yellow, visible only by the landscape lighting, shining pale blue light at the gleaming exterior of Zayn’s car where it was parked in the driveway. He frowned again as he saw Zayn’s security, heads ducked down against the rain, lugging suitcase after suitcase from the house and stuffing it in the trunk and backseat of the car. 

“What the hell,” He breathed, his heart beating a little faster. He glanced back at the staircase where Zayn and Harry had disappeared nearly a half hour earlier, and cursed. 

 

Harry held on so tight, Zayn literally saw stars. He could feel long fingers digging into his hair, tangling in it, gripping hard.

He grasped the backs of Harry’s knees tighter as he folded his thighs against his chest. Harry let go of Zayn’s hair and grabbed a pillow to bite down on instead, moaning into it as Zayn opened him up further with his tongue, pressing in deep, enjoying the clench and unclench of Harry’s body as he writhed beneath him. _Don’t come yet,_ he begged mentally. _Don’t come yet, want you to feel me._

“ _Zayn_ —” Harry choked, his words cut off by the vibrations of Zayn’s moans inside him. “‘M gonna come, gonna come right now, babe, please,” Harry’s whole body tensed beneath Zayn’s touch. “Want you to fuck me, Z. Right now.”

Zayn let go of Harry’s legs and pulled away from him, breathless, his heart beating so fast it was pounding out of his chest. He glanced up, and felt something heavy sink into his bones. The way Harry was looking at him, unblinking, green eyes almost black with desire, like he’d follow him to the ends of the earth… All the air left the room, leaving him light-headed, unsure which was was up or down.

“You want me to fuck you,” He breathed, moving up along Harry’s body again; kissing his chest, mouthing at his nipples, licking the sweat from the dip at the bottom of his throat. “How do you want me to do it?”

Harry sucked in a breath, eyelids fluttering. He didn’t speak until Zayn’s lips were ghosting over his, until they were rutting against each other, leaking, desperate for friction. It came out on a moan, barely intelligible, but Zayn heard it. “Fuck me like you want it to hurt,”

The words hung between them, thick and heavy, like the final curtain fall. Zayn didn’t even realize he’d gone completely still until Harry shifted against the covers, looking up at him with wet eyes. _What do you mean?_ the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Loud and hammering.

He ignored it. “Harry, wh—”

More knocking, louder this time. Zayn gritted his teeth.

“Zayn,” Niall called, his voice only slightly muffled by the door. “We have to talk.”

 

***

 

It took several minutes for Zayn to finally open the bedroom door. Niall tried his best to ignore the messy hair, and the way the room smelled distinctly of sweat and arousal, but he couldn’t ignore the sullen expressions on their faces as they walked past him towards the stairs. The ones they wore after one of their many fights—Zayn screaming that Harry should stay, Harry screaming that he couldn’t—when silence and cold would follow them around for days like a shadow… Until Harry showed back up, and Zayn’s whole world turned yellow once more.

“Zayn, there’s something I have to tell you.” Harry said quickly when the three of them reached the bottom of the steps. His eyes were flat, lifeless, and so were his words.

“Alright,” Zayn said, uneasily. 

Harry was distracted for a moment, watching as Louis downed another glass of wine and walked towards their small group, just a little off balance. Harry sucked in a breath before speaking, looked into Zayn’s eyes warily, searching for something. “That day all those years ago, when you took me home to get my things and I came back out saying I couldn’t do it—”

Niall watched something flicker in Zayn’s expression, but Harry pressed on.

“You were going to marry me, and we were going to have our fairytale ending,” Harry smiled, but his eyes were wet. “I wanted a life with you more than anything, Z. It’s all I could think about, all I ever dreamed of. But the reality of it caught me off guard… When I went inside that house and told my parents we were going to get married—they told me to go for it. _Do what you want, cause it won’t last, and you’ll come running back home_. And it made me panic—the thought of actually going through with it; jumping into the car with you and driving away forever to a new life that I knew nothing about. I was scared, so I told you it was my parents who were against us. I looked you in the eyes, and I lied to you, Z.” Harry closed his eyes, blinked as the tears streamed freely down his face. “I’m so sorry. In a million years I’d never be able to express how sorry I am.”

Zayn had gone still, his hand rigid where it continued to hold on to the banister. His eyes were dark and empty. “Be safe, Harry. I hope to see you at the party tomorrow night.” He smiled, tight and lifeless, before quietly excusing himself and walking down the hall. 

“Zayn—” Harry looked desperate, completely taken off guard by the continued kindness.

“Come on, Haz. Let’s go.” Louis urged, reaching for Harry’s shoulder, but Harry wouldn’t budge, instead looking to Niall.

“Ni,” He said, their gazes locking for a long moment. “Stay with him tonight.”

“ _You could stay_.” Niall replied, his voice clipped. “You could stay with him.”

And Niall thought, for a second, that Harry might actually do it. Louis had grasped his hand, pulling him towards the door, but for just a split second, Harry looked hesitant, like maybe he wouldn’t go… but he gave in, followed Louis outside with hunched shoulders. A man from the house staff opened an umbrella over their heads the moment they stepped onto the front porch.

 

When the door shut behind them, Niall went to look out the window again, and saw that the yellow car was no longer parked in the driveway. Instead, one of Zayn’s drivers pulled up in a low-riding black vehicle, which Harry and Louis got into moments later. Louis must have summoned for it while Niall was upstairs.

“Zayn?” He called out when he turned around, looking down a dark, empty hallway. When he didn’t receive a response, he started walking, a white flash of lightening illuminating everything for a moment before darkness again. Thunder followed shortly after, seeming to shake the very ground he walked on. “Zayn?”

He found him in the kitchen, where the lightening flashed the brightest, through the wall of windows that looked out onto the garden, and Niall’s house beyond that. Zayn didn’t bother with the lights, and he didn’t sit down. Niall watched him where he stood by the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out over the landscape that was dark and imperceptible one moment, then lit up bright white the next, the rain gleaming in midair, the grass and the flowers suddenly absent of all color. Numb, and electric all at once.

The thunder sounded again, cracking like a whip, refusing to be ignored. 

“I saw them packing up your car…” Niall said. He waited for Zayn to turn around, but when he didn’t, he kept going. “Are you leaving? Did something happen?”

“He doesn’t love me. He never has.”

“That’s not true,” Niall stared, gripped the edge of the countertop. It was what he’d been afraid of for weeks; the moment when Zayn’s optimism finally ran out and he realized that maybe Harry wasn’t the person he always thought he was.

“What’s the point of all this if he never loved me?” Zayn continued on like Niall wasn’t there, speaking to the glass, his eyes staring out into the darkness until the lightening put it all on display again, harsh and unforgiving, just for a fraction of a second, but long enough to see clearly. “What’s the point of all the money in the world, if it still doesn’t make me good enough for Harry fucking Styles?”

Niall didn’t know how to answer that, and Zayn didn’t expect him to.

“I didn’t even care about money, in the beginning…” Zayn laughed once, harshly, the shrug of his shoulders robotic. “I majored in business because in all honesty, I didn’t know what else to fucking take. I didn’t want to live in a big empty house like this. I didn’t want to be known for throwing parties, or owning the nicest car on the block. I’m a fucking _painter_ Niall, did you know?” He turned around then, his eyes manic as he tore a picture from the wall and tossed it on the kitchen table. “I did this!” He shouted. 

He tore three other paintings from the walls in the kitchen, until he ran out and went to another room to tear down more. Then another room and another, ripping the artwork from its hooks, slamming the canvases onto the floor. Glass shattered, wood split, and Niall ran after his friend, hoping he wouldn’t break, too.

When Niall finally caught up to him, Zayn was in a sitting room near the back of the house, throwing a heavy crystal ash tray at a giant abstract work over the fireplace. In flashes of bright-white clarity, he watched as Zayn swiped all the books off the shelf, knocked priceless vases and glass figurines to the floor, tipped one of the couches. Niall didn’t even realize he was shouting Zayn’s name until the last crack of thunder—the loudest one they’d heard—left them both still and completely silent.

Zayn was bleeding, a lot. Niall could see it when he finally turned on the light, and the two of them cringed away from it, away from the severity of what they could see. 

He was trembling so violently, Niall thought his legs might give out. Clutching his hand and crying; the ugliness of his pain, of his rejection, showing through his sharp features. Showing what was underneath the whole time, like peeling back a mask. 

Niall felt like he could throw up, but instead he walked his friend over to the other couch that was still right-side-up. They sat, Zayn with his head between his knees, breathing hard.

“I’m gonna go get the first aid kit,” Niall said quickly, not even sure if Zayn could hear him. He ran to the still-dark kitchen, lightening flashing in his eyes as he searched frantically through the cabinets. “Hello? Hey I need help in here!” He called out over his shoulder, but no one came. The house staff was off for the evening, and Zayn’s security at night consisted of three guys stationed around the property, keeping an eye on things from the outside. Niall took a deep breath and continued to search, trying not to shake as the thunder struck again, keeping time.

When he returned to the room, kit in hand, Zayn was still sitting where he’d left him, surrounded by destroyed picture frames and glass fragments, head between his knees, unmoving. He’d bled onto the carpet, the deep red sinking into the white. Niall was still staring at the stain when Zayn started to speak, in a voice so shaken Niall wanted to tell him to hush—so he could think straight, so he could patch the cut and clean up the mess like always. But instead, Zayn pressed on, and Niall remained silent, his closest confidant, his best friend.

“The irony is, I met him in an art class.” Zayn said, finally looking up. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, remembering the moment. “I went to watch one afternoon, to see if I wanted to take it the next semester… I wasn’t even supposed to be there.” 

Niall fumbled with the latch of the first aid kit, his hands trembling as the stain on the carpet got bigger and bigger. He took another deep breath, made himself calm down.

“I’m not an idiot, Ni,” Zayn continued, desperate to be understood. “I know there’s no such thing as love at first sight and fated lovers… But I swear, when I saw Harry sitting at his easel that day, with the light shining in his hair, and eyes that were greener than the grass outside—I swear I loved him, right then, Ni. It hit me like a plane falling out of the sky.” Zayn rubbed at his chest with his good hand, smearing traces of blood across his shirt. “The feeling’s never left me. Not for a second, even after all these years.”

He looked at Niall, then looked away. Rubbed his chest harder.

“I wish it would just stop.” He breathed, barely above a whisper. Another secret to keep. “If I didn’t love Harry like I do… if I could just let him go… I’d be free.” Zayn curled his hand tighter, made the blood drip faster. “I hate myself for it, Ni; my obsession with him, and the resentment I feel when it’s not reciprocated. It’s like he rips my fucking heart out, every single time. But I can’t leave him alone… I’ll die like this before I leave him alone.”

The words sat between them as Niall patched the cut. They didn’t speak again, and Niall was thankful for it. Because if Zayn had asked him to respond, if he wanted Niall to be honest, he’d have told him not to hold his breathe for someone like Harry. 

 

***

 

**The Next Day**

 

The road stretched out before them, nearly a straight shot; wide open, disappearing into the horizon. Niall braced himself, hand gripping the edge of the bright blue car door as he watched the speedometer creep towards triple digits. The top was down, wind racing through Niall’s hair almost violently. And even the sunglasses over his eyes couldn’t dim the brilliant colors in the sky.

Liam Payne was in the driver’s seat, and he had no intention of slowing down.

“Alright over there, Ni?” He teased, grinning beneath his aviators. His gold rolex caught the light and sparkled bright enough to blind a man as he turned the wheel just so to accommodate for a curve in the road. 

“Peachy,” Niall replied, smile tight. 

Liam just chuckled, reclined back in his seat, one hand on the wheel. “So this party tonight…” He said, casual as ever. “He’s going to be there, right? This Zayn Malik character no one can shut up about…I’d like to meet him.”

Niall’s fingers slipped just the slightest along the edge of the car door, his palms suddenly sweaty. “Yeah, he’ll be there.”

Liam glanced over at him, his eyes a mystery behind his shades. “You’re pretty close to the him, aren’t you? Spend a lot of time over his place and all… How’d that happen?”

“Are you asking how I made a friend?”

Liam chuckled again, the sound grating on Niall’s nerves. “Always the funny guy,” The speedometer jumped a little, up to 110mph. “It’s just, I heard he’s like a recluse. What is he, crazy or something?”

Niall thought back to the night before, when Zayn revealed the darkest parts of himself, the parts Niall would rather not have seen. The mystery of him suddenly dissipating to leave behind a broken man who’d devoted his life to the one person he could never have. 

“He’s not very social,” Niall said instead.

“Yeah, but he’s social with you,”

Carefully, Niall nodded, his eyes straying from the rapidly-approaching dusk to look at Liam’s face. He was no longer smiling.

“I just thought it odd, is all. That invitation appearing in the mail.” Liam said slowly. The speedometer hit 115mph. “A lot of things have been ending up on my doorstep lately, and I’m starting to wonder if there could be a relation.”

Niall closed his eyes behind his sunglasses, kept his breathing even despite his racing thoughts. Liam was talking about the flowers. The insane bouquets of daffodils that Niall begged Zayn to stop ordering. The same one’s he warned Harry about keeping so boldly on display. But neither listened, of course.

“This morning, Harry made me breakfast. Banana Chocolate chip pancakes, like my mom used to make.” A smile flickered across Liam’s face as he remembered. “I didn’t even know he still remembered that. It’s been so long since we’ve had so much as a civil conversation, so naturally I thought he was trying to poison me at first.”

Niall, though uncomfortable, smiled. “Naturally,” He agreed.

“We ate them at the kitchen table together, and we talked about a lot of things. _Actually talked;_ no insults, no throwing things, no arguing whatsoever. It was…nice.” Liam said the word like he wasn’t quite sure it was the one he wanted.

“That’s good,” Niall offered, wary of where Liam was going with it all.

“Yeah but that’s the thing, Niall. It was too good.” Liam shook his head. “It felt like we were actual human beings again, just enjoying breakfast in the morning. Listening to the fucking birds chirping outside our window while we contemplated the weather—”

“Yeah?” Niall looked at Liam, anxiety stirring in his chest. The speedometer was pushing 120mph, and Niall would bet his heart was racing just as fast. 

“It was bullshit. Complete bullshit. I only bought into it because I’ve been feeling like a lonely piece of shit lately, and for a couple hours this morning, I actually believed that things could be better between us.” Liam laughed, shook his head in disbelief. “But no, that’s not it at all. Harry’s done something. He’s guilty, and it’s eating away at him. Every time I look at him, I see it. Something in his eyes that isn’t quite right… You wouldn’t happen to know what’s got him stressing, would you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Liam’s voice was serious, no more games. He pressed down a little harder on the gas, took the car up to 130mph. 

“Liam,” Niall warned.

“It’s Zayn, isn’t it?” Liam demanded over the roar of the engine, his eyes darting between Niall and the road. “Is there something going on between them?”

“ _Liam!_ ”

“ _Is there?!_ ”

Niall watched the speedometer push up steadily then, from 130 to 145mph in just a few seconds. He felt like he was suffocating, the wind literally knocking the breath out of him. He could feel the car shaking with the effort of the high speeds, not built to maintain them for so long without straining the engine. But Liam kept yelling the question, kept demanding and pushing down harder on the gas until Niall was sure they were going to fly off into a ditch if they didn’t slow down soon. 

He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw shut, praying he’d make it out of that godforsaken car alive. Stayed like that until he felt the vehicle begin to slow down to a reasonable speed, the wind no longer stinging his face. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw Liam grinning over at him, suddenly easy and relaxed, like his outburst had never happened. He laughed, clapped Niall hard on the shoulder; old friends once again. “Just fucking with you, buddy.” He chuckled, and turned his attention back to the road.

 

***

The daffodils were wilting, petals dropping onto the floor like autumn leaves; their yellow color dulled and darkening around the edges. Whereas once their stalks stood tall, blooming towards the sun, they had since become downturned, hanging like weeping willow trees in their glass vases. The great white room turned into a graveyard for all the what-ifs of the summer, and the promises that never had a chance to be kept.

Niall heard a door slam upstairs, and glanced up to see the crystal chandelier over his head quivering. “I’m not going!” Harry yelled, his voice barely intelligible from where Niall sat.

“Open the door!” Liam shouted, banging heavily on the wood. He sounded like the police, ready to kick it down if he didn’t get an answer. “Harry, I mean it!”

Niall took another sip of the tea he’d been offered, crossed his legs.

He exchanged looks with a woman on the cleaning staff, both of them pretending not to listen, but hanging on every word.

“If you want to go so fucking bad, then go! I’m not stopping you!”

“What’s the problem, Hazza?” Liam sneered, loudly enough for his voice to ring clear throughout the house. “You’ve been going out every other night for weeks, but now suddenly you’ve lost the desire to have a little fun? What are you afraid of, huh?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Then get your fucking clothes on and let’s go.”

 

***

They went back and forth like that for another twenty minutes; Liam threatening through the door, banging on it relentlessly, and Harry arguing with him on the other side, refusing to come out. When it stopped, suddenly and out of the blue, it was a little unnerving to have the house fall into such a complete silence so quickly. He stood from his seat on the couch and tentatively stepped into the front hall, just in time to see Liam storming down the grande staircase, headed for the front door. 

“I can’t fucking do this,” He muttered, half to Niall, half to himself. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and went out onto the massive front porch, only stopping for a moment to call out, “I’m counting on you to get him dressed and out to the car, Ni. You’re the only fucking person he listens to nowadays.” 

 

So a minute later, Niall found himself on the second floor of the mansion, standing outside the master suite, knocking on the door and calling Harry’s name.

“Go away,” A muffled, somber voice replied. 

“Harry, it’s me.” Niall sighed. “Can I just come in?”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Niall stepped back as the knob started to twist.

Harry looked like death warmed over; eyes puffy, nose red, hair wild and matted around his face. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, his bare feet sinking into the carpet as he led the way into the room. 

The space was so brightly lit that Niall had to blink a few times in order to see clearly; colorful floaties crowding his vision. The room was clean—so clean that it hardly looked like a bedroom at all—and there was steam drifting out of the ensuite, making the air hot and thick, perspiration appearing on his and Harry’s skin alike. 

“Is Liam gone?” Harry asked quietly, settling back onto his bed, crisscrossing his legs before him. Niall sat down right at the edge of the mattress, his feet still firmly planted on the floor. He shook his head, and Harry sucked in a deep breath. “I know you’re still mad at me, for what I did.”

Niall said nothing, just stared.

“I’m mad at myself, too. If I could go back and do things differently I wou—”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Niall’s voice was quiet, but cutting. “You wouldn’t do things differently. You have your chance to do them differently now, and you still won’t.”

Harry’s eyes watered, already close to spilling over, but he shook his head. “It’s complicated now—”

“What’s complicated about it?” Niall asked, feeling his temper spark in his chest, starting a fire. “You and Liam have a terrible relationship; it’s toxic and noncommittal. Self-destructive, even; you two staying together. And Zayn—he loves you more than I’ve ever seen anyone love another person. He reinvented himself for you—”

“ _I never asked him to do that,_ ”

“Yeah, you kind of did.” Niall glared. “You ended things with him because he was broke. Made him feel he wasn’t good enough for you, because he couldn’t afford you.”

Harry said nothing, looked down at his lap.

“He reinvented himself because, to someone like you, he was worthless the way he was.” 

“That’s not true,” Harry almost whispered.

“Well, that’s what he thinks.” Niall cut. “And if you want to prove him wrong, there’s nothing stopping you but you.”

Harry met his eyes again, and Niall could see the mirage finally start to fade; rippling in the air, revealing the dust beneath blue skies. “You think he could ever forgive me?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” Niall shook his head, remembering the way Zayn seemed to break after Harry told him— his mind suddenly questioning everything he thought he knew to be true. “But you have to try, Harry. Before you lose your chance.”

 

***

 

Zayn never went to many parties when he was younger, but he remembered how they felt. The music, the lights, and the alcohol making the ground move beneath his feet, making his thoughts sluggish and loud. His brain shouting into a speakerphone in slow-motion. There was always so much to look at, like he was trapped in the middle of a kaleidoscope and everything needed to be touched, tasted, experienced. It made his head hurt; the noise and chaos of it all. The recklessness and lack of control. 

Zayn Malik, legendary for his extravagant celebrations week after week, preferred to observe from afar as people lost themselves to the madness and truly let go. He envied them; the way they craved the feeling of dangling just over the edge, barely catching their breath because their heart was beating so fast it felt like it might stop. He envied them because he felt it all the time, like a wire’d been tripped in his brain, something in his head that’d just never been right.

Zayn knew there was chaos inside him. Hurricane winds in his chest, threatening to break free if he didn’t hold them in just so. He didn’t search for the edge, never needed to. But he craved the calm. He burned for it, like a junkie dreaming of that next high, the cool wash of it over his veins, water thrown over the fire. 

_Harry was the sweetest calm he’d ever known._

 

He saw them arrive shortly after eleven, when the party was just starting to gain some real momentum. The band had shed their jackets, the drinks were flowing more than ever, and people were cheering at the fireworks going off in the sky, ribbons of purple and gold exploding beneath the stars. Zayn saw Harry look up at them, too; eyes wide, a small smile on his lips. But a sturdy-looking man in a grey suit—the one and only Liam Payne—yanked him along with a tight grip on his wrist, pausing only to grab a drink off a passing tray. Harry pulled free a few moments later and shouted something at him. Liam shouted back. Zayn gritted his teeth and watched Niall wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders, trying to reason with them both. He glanced up at the window where he knew Zayn was watching, his eyes impossible to read. 

 

Less than ten minutes later, Niall walked into his study, accompanied by two security guards. “Thank you,” Zayn nodded to them. One of them exited the room, while the other stayed by the door, hands crossed over his stomach, eyes staring off across the room. He made himself into a statue, to give them some semblance of privacy. 

Niall frowned as he took a seat in one of the leather armchairs and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He sipped it before speaking, watching Zayn as he continued to stand by the windows peering down at the crowds, listening as the song changed to something faster, pulsing. “You didn’t have to summon me, you know. I was coming up here anyway.”

Zayn smiled, turned to look at his friend full-on. “I know. But it’s faster if I summon.”

Niall grinned back, sipping from the glass again. When he spoke a few moments later, his face was serious. “You really beefed up on security tonight. Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

Zayn said nothing, poured himself some of the whiskey, too.

“You know, aside from packing suitcases into your car after nightfall, for God-knows-what.”

When their eyes met, Niall was glaring at him. “If this is the last time I’m ever gonna see you, could you at least tell me so I can give you a proper goodbye?”

Zayn turned his back to Niall, closed his eyes and squeezed his glass until the heaviness in his gut passed. “It won’t be the last time. I promise.”

“So you are leaving then?”

Zayn ignored the question, absentmindedly rubbed his thumb along his chin. “Does he treat him like that often? Harry’s fiancé?” He frowned and walked to the window, tried to find them again in the crowd. 

“You’re terrible at answering questions, you know that? Just awful.”

“He’s a brute.” Zayn muttered. “What does Harry see in him?”

“Zayn.”

He felt Niall’s hand on his shoulder, and he turned around. He hated the look in his eyes; irises bluer than the too-blue water in his pool, bluer than any sky he’d ever seen. 

“I can’t tell you.” He replied honestly, squeezing at Niall’s arm, praying he understood. “Not right now, not tonight.”

Niall stared at him for a long time, his lips pressed into a grim line, but finally he nodded. “Okay.” He sighed. “Alright, I trust you.”

Zayn grinned, the biggest and brightest he could manage. “You’re my best friend, you know?”

Niall blushed pink and smiled, lopsided and easy. “Yeah, I know.”

They clinked their glasses together once and laughed, the seriousness of the past few minutes falling away.

“You should go down there,” Niall urged when he caught Zayn staring into the crowd yet again. “Find him.”

Zayn smiled, but he didn’t feel it. His fingers trembled just the slightest when he reached up to scratch at the neatly-trimmed stubble on his cheek. “Am I a fool to keep chasing after him, Ni? Even after all he’s done?”

Niall thought for a long time, his eyes dancing as he stared back at Zayn. “Yes,” He finally admitted, never one to withhold the truth. “But what’s life without a bit of foolishness?”

 

***

 

Zayn found Harry by the pool, sipping red sangria and smiling at a group of girls in glittery dresses who’d jumped in, arm in arm, laughing so loud they could be heard over the roar of the music. He was alone, mercifully; a few minutes earlier, Niall had managed to coax Liam across the courtyard, where the smokers lingered, puffing silver clouds into the air like human chimneys.

“Hey there,” Zayn said, joining Harry easily, their shoulder’s parallel as they looked out over the pool. 

“Zayn,” Harry breathed his name, lashes fluttering, a smile slowly stretching across his face. “I didn’t think you’d wanna see me.”

Zayn turned his head to look at him, and Harry turned his head too, meeting his gaze. Zayn felt his heart stop, skitter, and start back up again at twice the original speed. “I always want to see you,” He said.

“It was terrible, what I did to you,” Harry barreled on, the flood gates opened. “I regret it every day, Z. _Every single day_. I was a coward, and you deserve better than me.”

Zayn felt dizzy, hearing him say the words. Amazed to think that all those years Harry had been thinking of him, too. Wondering what would have happened if he’d gotten back in that car to drive anywhere they wanted to go. 

Zayn reached out to brush his fingers along the back of Harry’s hand; subtle, but lingering, the slight brush of their skin sending an electric shock up his spine. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

He watched Harry’s lips part slightly, breath hitching and slowing to almost nothing. His eyes darkened with the way Zayn was staring at him. “Yes,” He said, and he grasped Zayn’s hand so tightly it almost hurt. 

 

***

 

“It’s all a bit much, don’t you think?” Liam asked Niall once he’d lit up and let the smoke settle in his lungs a time or two. “This whole…thing…whatever he’s trying to accomplish with this—what’s his deal?”

Niall chuckled, shrugged one shoulder and dug his hands into his pockets. “Maybe he just likes it when people enjoy themselves. Does he have to have a deal?”

Liam huffed, unconvinced. “Everybody’s got a deal.”

They stayed like that a moment or two, Liam’s eyes scanning over their scarce little corner of the crowd. He was still brooding, but quietly, lost in his own thoughts next to Niall until a familiar face walked up to them and shook them out of their stupor.

“I’ve been looking all over for you two,” Louis beamed when he saw them, squeezing both their shoulders tight. It was clear that he was more than a little tipsy already, and his forehead glistened with the finest sheen of sweat. “Too many people at this damn party.”

Liam huffed again. “It’s like a zoo out here.” He eyed Niall.

Louis grinned, even wider than before. “It always is.” He let go of their shoulders and summoned over one of the waiters, intent on scoring them some drinks. “The both of you look disgustingly sober, it’s killing me.”

 

***

 

Zayn turned the knob and opened the door to Niall’s bungalow with ease, because Niall was too trusting and he never locked his doors. Harry stepped over the threshold first, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The house was dark, the moonlight streaming through the windows the only way they could see as they ventured into the living room where they’d first reunited at the beginning of the summer. The house hadn’t changed much since then, except Niall’s old furniture was back, and there were a few papers scattered across the desk in the corner and atop a few other surfaces.

Harry was shaking, so subtly Zayn almost missed the tremor in his hands. He squeezed Zayn’s a little tighter, and Zayn squeezed back, bringing the lamp on the side table to life to give a little warmth to the room. 

Harry let go of Zayn’s hand to sit down on the couch and peer at the teetering stack of books Niall had sitting on the coffee table. He sifted through a couple of them, smiled. 

Zayn felt himself staring, so he stirred to motion again, already walking into the kitchen as he asked, “Tea?”

“Yes please,” 

Zayn poured water into Niall’s little blue teapot, placed it on the stove, and turned the knob to warm it up. It had been years, he realized, since he’d made his own tea. He used to love doing it; the structure of routine, the whistling pot a promise that the day was about to begin. He made a few cups throughout the day, to keep him going when his eyes started to droop and his limbs felt heavy. Eventually, he started making a cup for Harry, too. Both of them sitting at the kitchen table in Zayn’s house he shared with six roommates, whispering over toast before their early morning classes, Harry laughing when Zayn told him his hair did a tornado-y thing in the mornings. 

It was all he’d ever really wanted, if he thought back on it; to make Harry laugh and spend every morning of his life looking at tangled curls and puffy green eyes, still groggy with sleep. In that bungalow, dropping tea bags and teaspoons of sugar into their cups, listening to Harry rustle pages in the living room by the lamplight, he felt like maybe they could still do it. They could have good morning kisses and afternoon phone calls and honey-I’m-home’s. Long car drives through the country, weekly arguments over who forgot to take out the trash. Zayn felt it in his chest, that sensation of cresting a hill, anxious to see what’s on the other side. 

“Three sugars, right?” He handed Harry his cup with a smile, and sat down beside him. 

Harry took it, already grinning. He sipped from it and set the cup on the coffee table so he could hold up the front page of a newspaper to his chest. Zayn’s own face stared back at him. “Niall’s been keeping newspaper clippings of you all summer.” He said, grin widening as he saw the shock on Zayn’s face. “I found them in the drawer when I was nosing around.”

Zayn laughed quietly, taking the newspaper, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Newspaper clippings? Niall’s such an old man. He’s probably scrapbooking, too.”

“Hey,” Harry frowned in mock offense and poked at Zayn’s chest. “I scrapbook.”

“Of course you do,” Zayn laughed harder and grasped at Harry’s finger, holding it against his heart before he could move it away. They both looked at it for a moment, falling into a hushed silence that was eventually broken by Harry’s careful words.

“I collect them too,” He admitted, as Zayn placed his rapidly-cooling teacup next to Harry’s. “The newspaper clippings, that talk about you.” It was his turn to blush, and it colored his cheeks a deep pink.

“Really?” Zayn asked, trying and failing to bite back his grin.

“Yeah, I have a whole box full. From as recent as this week, all the way back to when you first moved to West Egg.” Harry said, turning on the couch so that one leg was pulled up on the cushions and he was facing Zayn. “I watched them carry in the furniture and plant the flowers in the garden. I can see your place across the water, clear as day when the weather is nice. It’s hard to miss, with the yellow.”

Zayn just rubbed his thumb over Harry’s knuckles, listened quietly. He’d been watching Harry too, of course. He saw when the curtains were pulled back in the mornings and Liam’s dogs were let out into the yard to run. He saw when Liam got home from work, and when the lights came on in the evening to compensate for the dusk. Some days, days when he felt hopeless and so low he could barely breathe, he thought he even saw Harry there, staring back at him.

He’d moved to West Egg for Harry. It was always Harry. 

Zayn thought it all, but he didn’t say it. _Maybe_ , he let himself think, _maybe I can tell him later. Maybe we won’t have to end this here._

He opened his mouth to ask the question that had been burning on the tip of his tongue all night, the question that would would change everything, but Harry beat him to the punch.

“I’ve been reading up on some of the people you’ve been associated with, Z.” Harry said, cautious again, like he was treading in snake territory, watching his steps in the tall grass. “You never told me what you do for a living, but I think I figured it out.”

Zayn let Harry’s hand go, held his breath instead.

“It’s your cousin Aamir, isn’t it? The one you said who lived in New York City?” Harry shook his head when Zayn didn’t deny it. “You called him troubled, said he went to prison a few times when he was younger for petty thefts, then moved on to white collar crimes a couple years before you got into college.”

Zayn stared at him, not confirming or denying anything, because Harry already knew he was right.

“He’s a big name now, lives not far from here under the pretense of being a wealthy entrepreneur. It took me a while to recognize who he was, because his last name’s different than yours, but…” Harry trailed off, biting his lip, a frown on his face. “You work for him, don’t you?”

Zayn nodded, watched Harry closely. 

“What do you even do?” He demanded, his tone suddenly breaking.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Zayn, he’s bad news, family or not.” Harry’s voice dropped off, softened. His breathing was shaky when he spoke again. “I just worry…that you’re gonna end up dead or in jail if you don’t stop.”

Zayn glanced out the window, where a security guard was walking through Niall’s garden, his silhouette barely visible behind the low-hanging tree branches. There were at least two more, all within a hundred feet of the house, he knew. Keeping watch.

“I quit this afternoon,” Zayn said, grasping for Harry’s hand again. “I’m done.”

Harry wasn’t convinced, and Zayn didn’t expect him to be. Harry was smart, despite rarely being credited for it. “Is that something you can really just quit? It’s not like you can hand in a letter of resignation. What’s stopping them from coming after you? Plucking off another loose string?”

_Nothing._

“I’m fine,” Zayn insisted, managing a grin. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Zayn—”

Zayn leaned in, pressed his lips against Harry’s before he could protest again. He knew Harry hated it when he did that—kissing the questions right out of his mouth—but he just needed this one night. If it was gonna be the last time, if this night was all he could get, he didn’t want to spend it fighting. He kissed Harry until Harry kissed him back. He tasted the sweetness lingering on his tongue, felt the plump curve of his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Things heated up fast, their bodies still on edge from the night before when things went wrong. Within moments, Harry’s hands were buried in Zayn’s hair, and Zayn was fumbling at the fly of Harry’s trousers. It was intoxicating; the smell of him, the hitches in his breathing and the heat of his skin. Being touched by Harry was like coming home. 

“Wait,” Zayn made himself stop, reached up to grab Harry’s hands and still them. There was a guest bedroom down the hall that Niall said was his if he ever wanted to use it. They walked into it a few moments later, hand in hand, looking around at the old, iron four-poster bed, dressed in lavender and white. The air smelled stale, like it hadn’t moved in ages, so Zayn cracked the window open, let a cool breeze in along with the nighttime nature sounds of the garden. When he turned around again, Harry was still standing in the same place, fully dressed, looking at the bed like it might jump out and bite him. 

“We don’t have to do this, Haz. We can just talk, if that’s what you want.”

Harry blinked twice, quickly, and turned to look at Zayn like he’d forgotten he was there. “Zayn, does this make me a bad person?” He asked, so quickly the words tumbled over one another.

Zayn wondered what that even meant, to be a _bad person_. He wondered if Harry was even talking about what they were about to do, or the summer in its entirety, _does this make me a bad person?_

Zayn looked at the way Harry was standing; arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders hunched, like he was trying to curl into himself. There was a bruise on his wrist, Zayn realized, from earlier when Liam had grabbed him. Liam who’d had countless affairs in the time they’d been together, and who would continue to do so. Harry’d done bad things, they all had. But Harry felt remorse; he let the guilt and shame of the things he’d done eat away at him for years, like an open carcass. So Harry was asking, for his own sanity, so he wouldn’t have one more thing to regret, _if I do this, am I a bad person?_

“Do you love him?” Zayn asked.

Harry’s eyes widened impossibly, his irises danced as he thought. “I did,” He finally said.

And that hurt enough, knowing there was a time where there was someone else for him, when for Zayn it had always been Harry. “Can I just ask—why do you stay with him?” Zayn spoke quietly, gripping one of the four posters of the bed. 

“Because I know him,” Harry replied, eyes cast towards the floor, cheeks coloring. “It’s different from the way I know you. With him, I’m never surprised, because it’s always the same. He does terrible things, but I know he’ll come home every night, and I know when I wake up in the morning, he’ll be there, even if we’re just back to back.”

Zayn just stared at Harry, numb from the inside out. “I wouldn’t leave you, Haz. You know that.”

A smile twitched at Harry’s lips, even though his eyes remained wide open, sad. “I do now. But when we graduated,” He bit his lip, fumbled with his hands. “We would have struggled so much, Z. Just to try and keep food on the table.”

“Haz, that’s what people do. They work. They make a living.” Zayn said, suddenly angry. “Yes, we would have struggled, but we would have done it _together_.”

“It’s just how I felt, at the time.” Harry explained, his voice quiet despite Zayn’s outburst. He glanced down at his hands for a moment, but looked up again before continuing to speak. “Because I didn’t know what to expect, and you were always surprising me, every day. You terrified me, Zayn… Even now, you scare me more than anything else, and I love it. I love you.”

Zayn’s heart felt like it dropped right out of his chest, and his grip tightened on the poster until his knuckles were screaming with it. To hear Harry say the words again, after so much time had passed—after he’d almost given up trying—was like breaking the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning.

“I love you, too.” He wrapped his arms around Harry’s back and grinned into his hair. 

“I know,” Harry replied, and Zayn could hear the smile in his voice. “More than I ever deserved.”

When they kissed, it was frenzied, almost manic in the way they clutched at each other’s faces and exhaled hot into open mouths, like they were making up for lost time, picking back up where they started. Zayn kissed along the back of Harry’s ear, nipped at the skin there to hear him sigh. His hands fumbled along his hips, squeezing hard enough to get Harry’s knees trembling. 

“Zayn,” He panted. He was already half hard, pressing up against Zayn’s thigh. “I wanna make you feel good.”

Zayn groaned into Harry’s neck as warm fingers tugged at the buttons on his shirt. “You always make me feel good,” He muttered against his skin. 

 

***

 

Loving Zayn was like living in constant free-fall. He’d never said it before, but that day in art class, when Harry first looked over to see an angel smiling at him with eyes the color of liquid gold as the sun hit them just so, he felt like the ground disappeared beneath his feet. 

Harry helped Zayn shrug out of his jacket, then his shirt. He folded them over a chair by the bed and smoothed his hands along the muscles of Zayn’s shoulders, loving how firm they felt beneath his fingers. Zayn always touched him like he was something precious to be treasured for every hair on his head; prized, priceless, golden. Zayn made him feel like a dream, and for once, Harry wanted to live up to it. 

He pushed Zayn down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, curls falling along either side of his head to tickle Zayn’s cheeks, who laughed and closed his eyes. Harry loved the way Zayn laughed; it was pure, like bells ringing. Squinty-eyed, tongue peaking out beneath his teeth. Harry felt his heart drop. Falling, falling. 

He kissed the laugh right out of him, buried his face against Zayn’s until he felt hands coasting up his sides, gripping, gliding, making Harry breathless. Zayn always knew just where to touch him. He knew how to make his body hum like a melody, burn like an open flame. Harry made a noise into Zayn’s mouth, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hands squeezed tighter. 

“Babe,” 

Harry broke apart from Zayn’s lips to see that he was frowning up at him, combing a lock of curls behind his ear. “You’re crying,”

So much time had been wasted, Harry realized. All the nights they could have spent, wrapped in each other’s arms, Zayn’s hands roaming over his body. The time he could have used to memorize the exact lines of Zayn’s smile, and the way his short hair went spiky and wild when it was wet.

Harry smiled, let Zayn wipe the tears from his cheeks, because Zayn had always been there for him, whether he deserved it or not. 

Harry slid down on the bed and fumbled with Zayn’s fly for a moment before he had him out and in his hand, already so hard it made something tug low in his abdomen. Zayn groaned and let his head fall back against the pillows as Harry worked him with his hand, so slowly he could see every twitch, every slow dribble of precum. He opened his mouth, rubbed the head along his bottom lip and glanced up at Zayn. 

“Shit,” Zayn hissed, the muscles along his torso tensing. He was up on his forearms, watching him.

_I just wanna make you feel good_ , Harry thought as he sucked slowly over the head of Zayn’s dick, licked out along the slit and grasped the base with his hand. 

“Harry, I can’t,” He choked.

Harry sunk down a little further, kept his eyes on Zayn as he hollowed out his cheeks. He could feel his throat constricting around Zayn’s dick, his lips meeting his hand. He hummed.

Zayn groaned even louder than before, his arms unsteady as he continued to try and hold himself up. “Harry,” He warned, breathless. 

Harry ignored him, sucked harder. He moved his hand and sunk down as far as he could go, until more tears were stinging at his eyes, running down his cheeks. When he moaned again, eyes shut, hair falling into his face and sticking to his forehead, Zayn cursed and tugged at Harry’s hair, begging him to pull off. He did, at the very last moment, his lips leaving Zayn’s dick with a pop. He smirked up at him then, loving the way Zayn looked completely wrecked, completely enamored with him. _I want you to know that I love you_ , Harry thought. _I always have._

*** 

Zayn opened him up with two fingers, moving quickly. Harry loved the way the pain and pleasure meshed; delicious, burning, making him back up on Zayn’s fingers, asking for more. Zayn had his hand along Harry’s spine, fingers splayed, holding him there against the duvet. Harry moaned into the pillows as Zayn added another finger, pumped into him faster, harder. There was a desperation to his movements, and in the arch of Harry’s back as Zayn hit just the right spot. Years of what-ifs, obsession, desire, coming together in a crescendo that had Harry gripping the covers so tightly he was close to ripping them. 

Zayn pulled away then, leaving Harry empty and cold. He groaned, glanced back at Zayn to see him rolling on a condom. Harry felt his heart skip a beat in anticipation, followed by the warm tap of Zayn’s fingers at his thigh, asking him to turn over. 

He did, and ended up on his back, curls loose on the satin pillows, breath coming slow. He watched as Zayn moved closer to him, leaned over so their lips could meet. The kiss was slow and sweet, surprisingly innocent despite their bare skin gliding together, Harry’s clothes abandoned alongside Zayn’s on the chair. “I love you,” Harry could almost taste the words as Zayn said them against his mouth. “Harry, I love you… _Harry, Harry_ …” Zayn whispered his name like a prayer, setting something alight in Harry’s chest. 

He locked his legs around Zayn’s back and tangled his fingers in his dark hair, keeping him close. “Need you,” He whispered. 

Zayn groaned, bit at Harry’s neck before sitting back and lining up with his entrance, pushing in slow. “Fuck,” He panted, and Harry’s mouth fell open with pleasure as he bottomed out. 

“Zayn,” Harry breathed, grabbing for him, tugging him down into a kiss again as their bodies rocked on the bed like a fishing boat in the middle of a storm. Harry thought he might split open from the intensity of it all—the emotions he felt spinning circles in his chest, and the pleasure radiating through his body, lighting up nerves in every extremity. He held Zayn close, breathed against his lips as the steady thrusts turned more staggered and unpredictable. “Z…I—I—” Harry murmured nonsensically, loving the weight of Zayn and the smell of his skin. Wanting to meld their bodies tighter still, so he could go deeper, faster. 

He came forcefully, one hand gripping the sheets and the other tangled in his own hair, pulling hard. Zayn kissed over Harry’s cheeks and lips and the dip in his neck until his hips began to stutter and he came too, spilling into the condom, cursing into Harry’s curls. 

“Harry,” Zayn breathed against his cheek when they finally came down. “There’s something very important I have to ask you.” 

*** 

Niall saw them before Liam did, but it still wasn’t fast enough. 

Harry and Zayn were walking, hand in hand, through the crowded courtyard and up the stone steps leading indoors. They looked like they were coming from the direction of the bungalow, security trailing a safe distance behind at all times. Harry was grinning hard, dimple popping, rosy-cheeked. And Zayn was smiling at him like he’d captured all the stars in the sky. 

Niall almost smiled too, their happiness contagious, but then he heard a low, guttural noise behind him, almost inhuman. Liam slammed his drink down on the closest table and stomped out his cigarette, already headed after them before Niall or Louis could think to react. 

“Liam!” Niall called out to him, shuffling through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the back of Liam’s grey suit jacket. Louis yelled his name, too, almost stumbling into a waiter as he ran. They both knew the type of things Liam was capable of when he got angry enough, and the thought of it made Niall’s heart race that much faster. 

It all happened so fast, when they finally broke free of the crowd and followed Liam inside. Before he’d even taken another breath, Niall saw Liam approach Zayn and Harry from behind as they walked towards the stairs. Harry noticed him before Zayn did, yelling out a warning. Zayn turned, just as Liam cocked his fist back, ready to throw a punch. 

But two security guards had their hands on Liam before he could even take a swing, restraining him, dragging him towards the door. 

“Wait,” Zayn said quietly, suddenly a vision of calm as he nodded for the men to stop. He grasped Harry’s hand a little tighter and walked the few steps over to Liam, a pleasant smile on his face. “Hello, Mr. Payne. Just the man I wanted to see.” 

*** 

Shortly after that, they all walked up the stairs to the next level, the tension among them almost suffocating as they ultimately found themselves in Zayn’s study. 

The room was still and silent for what seemed like ages, the lot of them assorted around the space like wax figures, barely blinking, barely breathing. Zayn was standing by the window, and Harry sat between Niall and Louis on one of the couches, across from Liam, who’d been set free only by Zayn’s request. Security stood by, watching his every move. 

It was Zayn who spoke first, both hands buried in his pockets as he walked closer to Liam, the sounds of the party downstairs still audible even from several stories up. “This wasn’t the way I wanted it to happen.” He said, ultimately choosing to stand by the arm of the couch, just out of reach. “Please understand that I never meant for you to find out this way—about us.” 

Liam tilted his head up to stare at Zayn, his eyes hard, jaw clenching. “ _You son of a bitch_ —” He stood, arms tensed by his side, but the moment he did, there were three guns raised and pointed in his direction. Liam’s eyes went wide at the sight of them, and he slowly sank back down to the couch. 

Niall watched, unable to speak. He shouldn’t even be there. How did he get there? 

Zayn blinked his long lashes at Liam, playing innocent. But Niall could see the glimmer in his eyes, the smile hiding in his lips. “Sorry about that, it’s just a precaution. But I’d like this conversation to be a civil one, if possible.” 

When Liam spoke, his voice was low, quivering with the force of the control he exerted over it as he stared down at his fists. “I knew a year ago…” He glanced at Harry, and Harry looked away. “I knew it when you saw his face in the paper that first time, and I watched the color drain from your skin, like you’d seen a ghost. You were never the same after that. It was like you were someone else.” 

Harry gazed up at him uneasily, his knees pressed together, his hands balanced on his thighs. When Liam finally looked up at him, he sucked in a breath. “Liam—” 

“How long?” He demanded. 

“Liam, you have no right to judge me—” 

“I have every fucking right, Harry, _how fucking long?_ ” Liam shouted, clenching his fists tighter, pushing them down against the couch cushions in his anger. 

“Four years,” Zayn answered for Harry, his voice hard as he looked at Liam. “Four years in college, and this summer, we found each other again.” 

Liam cursed, buried his head in his hands. The room fell quiet again as they all listened to the crowd cheer for another round of fireworks. 

_“Why the fuck would you do this to me, Haz?” Liam almost spat, looking up at Harry with wild eyes. “Did any of this mean anything to you?” He jutted his finger towards Harry’s ring still sitting on his finger._

At that, Harry glared, stood up so Niall’s view was partially obscured by his leg. “Listen—you can be angry, and you can be hurt, but don’t ever pretend that you preserved any sanctity in our relationship. You’ve been sleeping around all your life, Li. Just because you stopped for a few months while we were dating doesn’t change all the evenings I spent home alone because you were out with one of your fucking side pieces.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Niall saw Louis shift uncomfortably in his seat, blushing visibly. 

“I know about your thing with Louis, too.” Harry said, looking down at his friend with a cool expression. “The two of you have been messing around for months—don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

With that, Louis cleared his throat and stood up, looking at Harry with wary eyes. The events of the past several minutes had clearly sobered him up, and he looked tired, even a little guilty. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve been a shitty friend, to both of you.” He glanced over at Liam, and Liam frowned, suddenly understanding. 

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” He demanded. “You knew the whole time!” 

“Yeah, I did.” Louis shrugged, suddenly back to his usual lax demeanor. “Basically gift-wrapped him myself and left him on Zayn’s doorstep, Payno.” 

Liam’s face turned to one of hurt, betrayal. “ _Why?_ ” 

Louis shrugged again, one shoulder, not quite as enthusiastic as the first time. “It was getting a little boring around here.” 

He walked out of the room before anyone could respond. Slid past the security guards and disappeared down the hall in seconds. 

Niall was left alone with Liam, Harry, and Zayn. He grabbed for the whisky sitting on the side table. 

Liam laughed once, harsh and wet, his eyes glassy, bloodshot. He scoffed at Niall, running a hand through his hair. “You too, huh?” When Niall didn’t answer, Liam just shook his head, incredulous. “What happened to us, Haz? Did you ever love me?” 

Harry looked to Zayn, then Liam. His voice was soft when he spoke. “I did, yes.” 

“So what happened to us?” Liam’s anger was cracking, leaving behind something sad, a little broken. 

“We were doomed from the start, I suppose. And when things went bad, neither of us tried to fix it.” Harry said, sinking back into his seat. On a whim, he reached out to touch Liam’s hand, and Niall could see the dark, blossoming bruise on the inside of Harry’s wrist. Apparently so could Liam, because he kissed the spot, grazed over it with his thumb. Zayn bristled, began to pace in front of the window. 

“I still love you,” Liam whispered, unable to meet Harry’s eyes. 

“You don’t love me.” Harry shook his head, just the slightest bit. “You’re in love with a memory.” 

Liam thought about it, moved to hold Harry’s hand. Zayn continued to pace. 

“We were doomed from the start,” Harry repeated, slowly tugging his engagement ring off and handing it to Liam. “We fell in love with temporary versions of each other, and it’s time to let them go.” 

Zayn turned around then, watched as Liam took the ring and stared at it in his palm. 

“I’m sorry for everything that I did to you.” Harry pressed on, taking in a deep breath. “You didn’t deserve that.” 

After a while, Liam nodded, turned the ring over and over. “I’m sorry too, Haz.” 

Liam left a few minutes later, after lingering awkwardly, muttering that Harry could stop by to get his stuff whenever he wanted. Harry only nodded, said he would, and the three remaining men watched as Liam slipped by Damien—the tall, burly Head of Security who’d guided Niall through the halls of Zayn’s house more times than he could count. 

Harry reached out for Zayn’s hand the moment the door shut, and Zayn grasped it firmly. Niall averted his eyes, feeling he’d seen too much. He’d spent his entire summer with a front row seat to the lives of some of the most powerful people in the city, but it was time he stopped meddling, lest he walk over a line that was never meant to be crossed. 

“Well—” Niall stood, preparing to say his goodbyes, but he was interrupted by the creak of the opening door. 

“Sorry to bother you, sir.” A young security guard dressed in all black walked into the room. He was much smaller than Damien, but his gaze was steely, jaw set. They all turned to look at him with curious eyes. 

“That’s alright—” Zayn frowned but edged a little closer towards the man. Niall stood warily in place, the air in the room not quite right. “It’s just, I don’t believe we’ve met…” 

The guard nodded solemnly, held out his hand for Zayn to shake. “My name is—” 

_Pow!_

A gunshot went off, and the nameless man fell to the ground, a dark, wet spot blooming on the back of his suit jacket. Beside him, a blade clattered out onto the hardwood from where he’d been hiding it in his other hand, a rattler waiting to strike. 

By the door, Damien stood with his gun raised and still pointed. He dropped it to his side when he saw them staring, a moment of utter silence falling over the lot of them as they tried to process what had just happened. _A man came in trying to kill Zayn, and now he’s bleeding out on the hardwood floors._

“Zayn,” Damien said, his eyes urgent. “It’s time to go.” 

They took a back passageway that Niall had never seen before; through a weathered-looking door hidden behind a decorative curtain in Zayn’s study. When they finally fought past the cobwebs and searched the walls, they hit the light-switch, allowing them to peer down a flight of narrow wooden stairs that curved out of sight just a dozen or so steps down. They didn’t have time to hesitate before Damien was ushering them down, their footsteps loud, but still not enough to drown out the sounds of chaos that erupted shortly after they closed and locked the door behind themselves. A group of men had come into the room looking for Zayn, flipping chairs over, cursing, but they never thought to look behind the curtain. 

After what seemed like ages, the stairs ended on a stretch of concrete, the edges of it blurred by the limited lighting, so it looked like it just might go on forever. Over their heads were concrete archways, reinforced every couple feet, vented, and illuminated by weak lighting that cast shadows over their faces. In the center of it sat Zayn’s yellow car, already warmed up and huffing, it’s exhaust getting sucked up into the ceiling vents. A black-suited man opened the door to the driver’s side and got out, standing by for Zayn to take his place. 

“What’s going on?” Niall asked, even though he had an inkling. He glanced back and forth between Harry and Zayn, taking in their solemn stares. “Zayn?” 

“I have to lay low for a while,” He explained, finally. “There are a lot of dangerous men out looking for me right now, and I’d prefer not to have another person I love in the line of fire…” He hesitated, looked at Harry. Harry squeezed his hand, tight. 

“I’m going with him, whether he likes it or not.” He nodded, then smirked at Zayn. “I’m not watching you drive away from me again.” 

Zayn grinned, kissed Harry’s cheek. 

“There isn’t much time,” Damien warned. So Harry and Zayn parted and got into the car quickly then; Zayn in the driver’s seat, Harry in the passenger’s. Niall walked up to Zayn’s side of the vehicle as he was busy adjusting the mirrors, his heart feeling heavy. 

“What if I wanted to come with you?” 

Zayn looked up at Niall, eyes wide at first before his lips slowly lifted up in a grin. “I’d love for you to join us Ni, but I need you here.” 

Niall frowned. “Need me for what?” 

Zayn paused, eyed Damien who was tapping impatiently at his watch. “We’re running out of time… Just please, promise me, Niall; you won’t try to follow us, no matter what.” 

Niall shook his head, felt tears welling up in his eyes that he angrily wiped away. “What the fuck does that mean—” 

“Promise me, Ni, please.” 

Niall looked down at them, Zayn’s hands already braced against the steering wheel, and Harry’s long legs folded into the tight confines of the car. In retrospect, he should have stopped them then, before it ever got out of hand. He should have argued with Zayn, put up more of a fight. But instead, Niall just nodded and backed away from the car as Zayn began to rev up the engine. “I promise,” He said it, and then they were off, driving away down the tunnel, leaving Niall behind. 

*** 

Damien led Niall through another round of twisting back passages and concrete walls, a hand on his shoulder at all times as he directed him left, left, right. In a few minutes’ time, they emerged from a storm shelter-type structure on the side of the house, the doors flapping back wildly as Niall climbed his way out, closely followed by Damien. 

Miraculously, as Niall rounded the corner, he could see that the party was still going strong in the courtyard. The music was louder than ever, and the crowd pulsed with moving bodies and color, people who were completely unaware of the search taking place for their gracious host. But Niall knew. He could see them; men dressed in dark suits and shiny shoes, spaced throughout the otherwise bright crowd like a black paint splatter on tie-dye. 

He knew they carried guns, and he knew what they’d use them for, should they find Zayn. Niall’s stomach did a flip, leaving him a little light-headed as he looked back to see Damien walking several feet behind him, discreetly keeping watch as Niall fumbled his way through the crowd. 

_Act natural,_ Damien had instructed. But Niall’s heart only beat faster, the memory of Zayn’s yellow car driving away on a constant loop in his head. _I might never see him again. He said it wouldn’t be the last time, but how can he be so sure?_

One of the dark-suited men locked eyes with Niall from across the courtyard and started towards him with a purposeful gait. 

“Niall Horan,” The man said, all business when they finally stood face-to-face. His expression was stern, no-nonsense, and he didn’t bother cutting corners as he asked, “Where is he?” 

“Who? Zayn?” Niall frowned, tugged at the cuff of his suit jacket. 

The man almost laughed. “Don’t play games with me, kid, you know why we’re here. Zayn said you were family, and Aamir takes family very seriously—except when they fuck him over. So basically, I won’t kill you. But nobody ever said I couldn’t take a couple of your toes in exchange for some helpful information.” He grinned, and Niall felt a shiver run up his spine. “Tell me where he is, and we won’t have to do this the hard way.” 

Niall opened his mouth, maybe to tell the man to fuck off, or maybe to plea for mercy, but either way he was interrupted by the abrupt stop of the music, and the sound of gunshots firing close by.

There was screaming, scattering, panic on a massive scale as half the people in the courtyard hit the deck, and the other half ran for their lives, tripping over each other, nearly causing a stampede in an effort to get away. Niall stood in the middle of it all and watched chaos erupt around him like water coming to a boil. He could see a flash of yellow at the edge of the property, riding down Zayn’s narrow drive at top speed, headed for the main road, headed for safety. 

He saw it happen like it was in slow motion, playing out before him like a tragedy on the big stage, every possibility created by that summer crumbled into a thousand pieces as shot after shot was fired at the body of the car, sparks flying, until one cracked the driver’s side window, flying in through the inner compartment. The car swerved violently, tires screeching, until it was headed for the water instead of the road, racing at full speed towards the Sound, rumbling over grass and flowers and brush until it drove off the shore, disappearing beneath the water’s smooth, dark surface so quickly it was almost like it had evaporated into thin air. 

Niall didn’t realize he was screaming until his lungs burned from the lack of oxygen and the breathless desperation of seeing his best friends sink to their deaths right before his eyes. 

*** 

The contrast of the white and black was too harsh—like spilled ink across a blank page—and Niall hated it. He told Liam so, when he insisted on having the ceremony in Harry’s room; a few dozen women and men dressed for mourning, standing around like statues, speaking in low tones and sending Liam pitying glances because it was _such a shame_. 

Several hours earlier, Niall’d helped to remove the half dozen bouquets of daffodils from the room and clean the fallen petals from the floor, piece by piece until there was nothing but white carpet and white walls and white furniture. The sight of it made him want to throw up, he realized. Because the flowers may have been wilting—the vibrancy of their yellow dulling, weakening—but they were still yellow, if only a glimmer. And if Zayn Malik had taught him anything over that past summer, it was that sometimes a glimmer was all you needed. 

It took two weeks for them to find the car in the Sound. The caught it like an over-sized trout, brought it out of the water hanging by it’s front bumper, dripping water from its body and busted back windows. Niall didn’t wait around to see the bodies, because he knew they’d be unrecognizable; bloated skin and blue lips, like something out of a nightmare. He just waited for the postmortem evaluation to confirm what he already knew; Zayn and Harry were dead, and they weren’t coming back. 

Harry’s ceremony wash short, but tasteful. The small golden urn that held his ashes displayed on a table by the middle set of French doors, surrounded in flowers and candles that smelled faintly of vanilla. Harry’s parents didn’t bother to show, but several people that knew him got up to say a few words, one after another. Niall managed through it, reading his own writings with a shaky voice and an unsteady hand, stating that Harry was not only his family by marriage, but also his very good friend. Liam, on the other hand, made it through three words before he shut down and had to excuse himself from the room. Niall and Louis followed him and stayed with him till he could catch his breath again. 

“I’ve been such a piece of shit,” Liam kept saying, sandwiched between his boys, holding on for dear life. “Can you ever forgive me for being such a piece of shit?” 

Zayn’s ceremony was held at his house shortly after Harry’s, the sky frustratingly blue out the windows as the boys stood in the kitchen, picking over their small plates of finger foods as they waited for the other guests that never came. Zayn’s parents didn’t bother either, and neither did any of the people from the weekly parties he threw over the summer. If it weren’t for Niall, Liam, and Louis, it would have been like Zayn Malik never really existed at all. 

Aamir’s men left Niall alone once it was confirmed by the dental records that the people in the car were indeed Harry and Zayn. They never got caught, of course, because the city police were too corrupt and weak to ever consider trying to accuse them. It was an injustice, but so was everything else. 

Niall sat down to go over the will with Zayn’s attorney one day shortly after the ceremony, and found that everything had been left to him. Everything. The thought of it made Niall miss Zayn even more. But two weeks after the will was read, he was still sleeping in the bungalow—unable to bear a night in that empty old mansion alone. The day he got the phone call, he was looking out his living room window, studying the sharp lines of the roof against the quickly darkening sky and wondering how lonely it must have been for Zayn all those months, restless and pacing the empty halls, wishing for something he might never have. The phone rang then; trill and piercing, startling Niall out of his thoughts and into motion. 

“Hello?” He asked into the phone, slightly winded from the shock. 

There was a long pause on the other end, punctuated only by soft breathing and anticipation. Niall listened, contemplated hanging up, but ultimately felt his heart drop out of his chest at the sound of the soft, velvety voice he thought he’d never hear again. “Hey there, old friend. Do you have a moment to talk?” 


	3. Epilogue

It was a town he’d never heard of, somewhere south along the water. _The people are kind, but not intrusive, and the fruit is always fresh._ Over the phone, Zayn had described it with such excitement that Niall almost felt bad for cursing him out. Almost. But hearing his voice after all those weeks—knowing that he and Harry were alive somewhere instead of sitting in urns in their respective homes—brought Niall’s entire world crashing. He hadn’t really let himself cry since he saw Zayn’s yellow car sink beneath the surface of the Sound—in shock, or maybe denial—but he cried then, holding onto the phone for dear life as Zayn handed his end to Harry and a low, familiar voice came through, crisp and clear. 

They let him yell. They let him call them morons and insensitive pieces of shit—for letting him believe they were dead for weeks before deciding to ring him up. Niall yelled until his throat was sore and his voice was hoarse—until finally, Zayn asked if he would like to come visit them, to talk in person, and Niall agreed. 

 

There were leaves everywhere. That was the first thing he noticed, driving his car through the town’s main street, looking at the small businesses on either side of the road, old women with handpicked fruit for sale, and a weathered, but charming little diner with a black and white sign flipped to open behind the window glass. It was the beginning of fall, and the tall, sturdy trees that lined the street for at least a mile were all losing their leaves; swirling, paper-thin flashes of red and orange and yellow. They ended up on the ground, or people’s cars, or trapped in gutters that had to be cleaned out every so often to keep them functioning right. The leaves fell constantly, slowly, giving the town a surreal vibrancy that was accentuated by the crisp afternoon sunshine and clear blue skies. _It’s romantic,_ Niall thought. _Just right_.

 

After asking around a bit, he was able to find the house Zayn had described over the phone. A big, cranberry red farmhouse just at the edge of town that looked out over a beautiful blue lake seeming to stretch for miles. The lawn was green and freshly cut, and big, beautiful rose bushes lined the front and sides of the house, varying in color from the deepest red, to pink, to white. Niall could smell them as he stepped onto the front porch and rang the doorbell. 

He only waited a moment or two before the door swung open, and Harry was standing before him, smiling as brilliantly as ever.

“Hey Ni,” He muttered the greeting into a headful blonde hair after being almost knocked to the floor with the force of Niall’s hug. Harry smelled like fresh air and fabric softener. His skin was warm, and his embrace was strong, and Niall felt the sudden urge to cry again at wild the impossibility of it all—but he made himself pull away instead and follow Harry inside. 

The interior was nothing like Niall would’ve expected (traditional; flowered wallpaper, scuffed wood floors, a worn-in fireplace with ashes still present from the last burning). Instead, the inside of the house was decorated with the same brilliant autumn colors as the leaves falling outside. The walls were a warm pumpkin color, and their couch was the color of red wine. Niall and Harry sat down on it after Harry gave him a quick tour of the downstairs, smiling as he said _this is our kitchen, and this is our dining room_. He was practically glowing; his hair silky and clean, pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head, and his skin clear, with a healthy flush to his cheeks. But instead of his usual expensive suits and designer shirts, a worn grey t-shirt was hanging from Harry’s shoulders, probably borrowed from Zayn—the faded letters from some University barely visible across his chest. He wore plain jeans and dark socks that slipped along the hardwood when he walked, and Niall had never seen him look so relaxed and happy. No longer Harry Styles, the vision, the dream—but just Harry, who tucked one foot under his legs when he sat, and hugged a golden throw pillow to his chest when he spoke.

“I’m glad you could come,” He smiled again, dimple cratering his cheek. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Niall sat on a chair across from him, looking around at the bookshelf in the corner of the room that was already halfway full, and the crisp yellow sunshine filtering in through the window, illuminating the little dust particles in the air. “It’s perfect, Haz.” He worried a loose string on the cuff of his jacket and frowned. “Where’s Zayn?”

“Oh, he’s on his way back from the art studio,” Harry said, casually. He laughed when he saw Niall’s confused expression. “We bought an art studio, yeah. It’s not much, but it keeps us busy. We have enough put away to live comfortably without it, thankfully. But it’s fun, and we’ve been holding classes there for anyone who wants to learn. Mainly neighborhood kids.”

Niall had almost forgotten that Harry used to be an art student, filling up blank canvases even before he and Zayn ever met. “That sounds nice,” He smiled, genuinely, imagining Harry and Zayn helping children learn to paint, holding their little hands as they guided their brush in the right direction. 

“We love it,” Harry grinned. “I never thought I was very good with kids, but it turns out I am. Zayn too.”

On queue, they heard the sounds of a car pulling up the dirt drive. The back door was visible to them through the kitchen, and they both turned to it instinctually. Harry got to his feet and walked over there before Zayn even stepped over the threshold. 

“Hey,” Harry kissed him deeply, once, then again, quickly, before they both laughed. If Harry was glowing, Zayn was radiant. His hair was longer, the top and sides sticking out in odd directions yet still managing to look windswept and striking. He was growing out his facial hair too; dark stubble trailing his jaw and cheeks. The clothes he wore were just as weathered and relaxed as Harry’s; a loose knit sweater the same cranberry color as the house, dark jeans with heavy boots. Paired with the slim silver eyeglasses perched on his nose, Zayn Malik was barely recognizable. But when he saw Niall, the same old squinty-eyed grin split across his face, and he almost dropped the takeout bags he was carrying.

“Niall! You made it!”

Zayn walked over to him just as Niall stood, and after handing the bags over to Harry, Zayn wrapped him up in a tight hug. 

 

The takeout was from a local Thai restaurant—apparently they’d had it every night for three days straight because it was _that_ good—and Niall coming to visit that afternoon just gave them an excuse to eat it earlier. They sat at the small kitchen table, their feet practically touching underneath it, and tried not to laugh with noodles in their mouths as Harry and Zayn took turns recounting stories about the children they taught at the art studio. Austin painted his tongue blue one afternoon because he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries. Vanessa tried to draw a mother hen sitting on her eggs, but instead it came out looking like a penis with wings (they didn’t have the heart to say anything, but they came home that night and laughed till they cried). 

It was all amazing; the life they’d created for themselves in their house by the lake, in a tiny town with a name no one outside of it had ever heard of. They were safe, relaxed, and so disgustingly happy it made Niall smile every time he looked at them. But it was almost surreal, the way they fit so well in their new lives, like they’d been there forever instead of just a few weeks. It started to mess with Niall’s head—the emotional distress of watching his best friends die before his eyes (organizing their funerals, reading their wills and comforting their loved ones) only to find out they weren’t gone at all. In fact, they’d never looked more alive.

“I really thought you were dead,” Niall said, finally. Their plates were clean, and Zayn had been in the middle of rambling on about the renovations they planned to make to the house in the coming weeks, but he stopped at the somber interruption of Niall’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn said, his eyes flickering to Harry for a moment before resting on Niall. “We never meant for it to be such a traumatic departure. Things…didn’t go quite as we’d expected.”

Someone did die, apparently. But it wasn’t them. The initial plan had been for Samson—one of Zayn’s security guards—to speed out of the garage in a decoy car, tricking Aamir’s men into thinking it was Zayn. He’d drive off in one direction, initiating a chase, while the _real_ yellow car—the one packed and ready with Zayn as the driver and Harry in the passenger seat—took off in the other direction, unnoticed.

Samson had believed he could shake them off with high speeds and a bit of cleverness, but a bullet flew through the car’s inner compartment and lodged in his head before he could even get to the main road. 

“I was devastated when I found out,” Zayn said quietly. “I felt like it was my fault, and I wanted to go back and pay my respects. He didn’t have any family, and he lived alone, but I felt like I should have been there.”

“It was too dangerous, and it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Harry intervened, reaching out to touch Zayn’s hand. “Samson came up with the plan, and he insisted on it, even when Zayn said it was too dangerous.” Harry looked at Zayn until he looked back. “It’s a horrible thing that happened, but Samson would be happy to know you’re safe, babe.”

Niall frowned as he tried to process everything they said. He shook his head. “There were dental records…your remains were cremated…how could you fake that?”

Zayn smiled, perking up a little at the question. “Well, that part’s not quite as complicated…we bribed the medical examiner to release false reports. Would have bribed the police, too, but they’re corrupt enough on their own.”

“Oh.” Niall nodded, looked down at his hands. 

“We wanted to tell you,” Harry said. “We really did… But it was safer if you knew nothing for a while—”

“—until people stopped snooping around.” Zayn agreed. “Same for Liam and Louis.”

“We sent them handwritten letters, telling them we’re alive. We didn’t say specifically where we were or how to find us, but they do know. Our parents, too.”

Niall remained quiet, remembering all the times he felt like he couldn’t breath from the shock and finality of it all; the impossibility of ever seeing their faces again. But Zayn Malik always managed to surprise him, and if he was honest, that’s the reason he loved him. “So…” Niall said, watching the worry deepen on their faces. “You’ve gotta change your names now, right?”

Harry and Zayn frowned, looked at each other.

“How about Henry and Zach?” Niall asked, clearly teasing. “Harrison and Zeke? Horace and Zebulon—”

They burst into laughter before Niall could run out of Z names, tears rolling down their cheeks because it felt good to laugh that hard, and Niall hadn’t done it in so long.

Harry cleaned off the table and Zayn washed the dishes. Niall lit a fire even though there was still a bit of light left in the sky. He could hear them in the kitchen, bickering light-heartedly about drying the plates properly before placing them in the cabinets. It made him smile.

“Hot chocolate?” Zayn asked, despite already holding two mugs in his hand. He passed one over to Niall where he was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace. Harry settled onto the couch with his own mug clasped between his hands, and Zayn took the spot beside him, grinning as Harry lifted one long leg and draped it over his.

They drank hot chocolate and sat in front of the fire like it was the middle of the winter, even though the weather was still a long way from freezing outside. Niall’s neck was damp with sweat, and he had to shrug out of his jacket, but the chocolate was deliciously rich, and the fire cast flickering shadows over their faces, making everything in the room a little bit cozier. He could stand a little heat. 

“So this town…” He said, setting his empty mug beside him on the rug. “What made you come here? How did you even find it?”

Zayn smiled, small and content, his finger teasing a baby curl at the nape of Harry’s neck. “Actually,” He said. “We didn’t have to find it at all.”

“My parents and I used to vacation here when I was little,” Harry explained, playfully swatting Zayn’s hand away. He was trying to be serious, but his smile was practically bursting out of him, the dimple in his cheek deeper than ever. “Um—yeah, so we used to spend the summers here every year, until I was eight and they bought another, bigger house in Georgia. I loved this one, cried to go back every year, but they never took me again… By the time they gave me the keys to it to for my eighteenth birthday, I’d practically forgotten it existed.

“The house has been mine for years now. I never came up to visit much, but I had the walls painted, and new furniture put in. Once a month, a maintenance crew came in to clean it top to bottom and tend to the yard. It was expensive as hell, but I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d be coming back here some day.” He smiled at Zayn, wrinkled his nose. “It’s our dream house, I think.”

Niall averted his eyes when Zayn leaned in to press his lips to Harry’s. They were so intimate, like a piece of good news you keep to yourself to protect it from the rest of the world. He felt a twinge in his chest; for his friends, and their house on the lake. For the town with the leaves that never seemed to stop falling, and the honesty of it all; stripped of the pretentious bullshit of West and East Egg. A place where people like Liam and Louis were few and far between and there was no reason to be afraid of the sunshine streaming in through the windows, because there was nothing to hide.

He could see himself living there, maybe, in his own little house. He’d have a dog and a bike and maybe one day he’d find somebody nice in town to share a bed with when it got cold at night. He could visit Zayn and Harry at their art studio, or bring takeout and a few beers over to have a good time with his boys. He could write all day and, thanks to Zayn, never have to worry about paying his bills on time. 

He could finally finish his book and tell the story he’d been bursting at the seams with since the beginning of the summer. An account of relentless love, forgiveness, and second chances against all odds.

Niall smiled as he saw Zayn reach for Harry’s hand at the same time Harry reached for his. They met in the middle, fingers interlocking, squeezing tight with no intention of ever letting go again.


End file.
